BIG KENNEDY was right; the reputable old gentleman rose to that lure
of Congress like any bass to any fly. It was over in a trice, those
preliminaries; he was proud to be thus called upon to serve the people.
Incidentally, it restored his hope in the country's future to hear that
such tried war-dogs of politics as Big Kennedy and myself were making a
line of battle against dishonesty in place. These and more were said
to me by the reputable old gentleman when I bore him that word how Big
Kennedy and I were ready to be his allies. The reputable old gentleman
puffed and glowed with the sheer glory of my proposal, and seemed
already to regard his election as a thing secured.
In due course, his own tribe placed him in nomina-ton. That done, Big
Kennedy called a meeting of his people and declared for the reputable
old gentleman's support. Big Kennedy did not wait to be attacked by
the Tammany machine; he took the initiative and went to open rebellion,
giving as his reason the machine's corruption.
“Tammany Hall has fallen into the hands of thieves!” shouted Big
Kennedy, in a short but pointed address which he made to his
clansmen. “As an honest member of Tammany, I am fighting to rescue the
organization.”
In its way, the move was a master-stroke. It gave us the high ground,
since it left us still in the party, still in Tammany Hall. It gave us a
position and a battle-cry, and sent us into the conflict with a cleaner
fame than it had been our wont to wear.
In the beginning, the reputable old gentleman paid a pompous visit to
Big Kennedy. Like all who saw that leader, the reputable old gentleman
came to Big Kennedy's saloon. This last was a point upon which Big
Kennedy never failed to insist.
“Th' man,” said Big Kennedy, “who's too good to go into a saloon, is too
good to go into politics; if he's goin' to dodge th' one, he'd better
duck the' other.”
The reputable old gentleman met this test of the barrooms, and qualified
for politics without a quaver. Had a barroom been the shelter of his
infancy, he could not have worn a steadier assurance. As he entered,
he laid a bill on the bar for the benefit of the public then and there
athirst. Next he intimated a desire to talk privately with Big Kennedy,
and set his course for the sanctum as though by inspiration. Big Kennedy
called me to the confab; closing the door behind us, we drew together
about the table.
“Let's cut out th' polite prelim'naries,” said Big Kennedy, “an' come
down to tacks. How much stuff do you feel like blowin' in?”
“How much should it take?” asked the reputable old gentleman.
“Say twenty thousand!” returned Big Kennedy, as cool as New Year's Day.
“Twenty thousand dollars!” repeated the reputable old gentleman, with
wide eyes. “Will it call for so much as that?”
“If you're goin' to put in money, put in enough to win. There's no sense
puttin' in just enough to lose. Th' other fellows will come into th'
district with money enough to burn a wet dog. We've got to break even
with 'em, or they'll have us faded from th' jump.”
“But what can you do with so much?” asked the reputable old gentleman
dismally. “It seems a fortune! What would you do with it?”
“Mass meetin's, bands, beer, torches, fireworks, halls; but most of all,
buy votes.”
“Buy votes!” exclaimed the reputable old gentleman, his cheek paling.
“Buy 'em by th' bunch, like a market girl sells radishes!” Then, seeing
the reputable old gentleman's horror: “How do you s'ppose you're goin'
to get votes? You don't think that these dock-wallopers an' river
pirates are stuck on you personally, do you?”
“But their interest as citizens! I should think they'd look at that!”
“Their first interest as citizens,” observed Big Kennedy, with a cynical
smile, “is a five-dollar bill.”
“But do you think it right to purchase votes?” asked the reputable old
gentleman, with a gasp.
“Is it right to shoot a man? No. Is it right to shoot a man if he's
shootin' at you? Yes. Well, these mugs are goin' to buy votes, an' keep
at it early an' late. Which is why I say it's dead right to buy votes to
save yourself. Besides, you're th' best man; it's th' country's welfare
we're protectin', d'ye see!”
The reputable old gentleman remained for a moment in deep thought. Then
he got upon his feet to go.
“I'll send my son to talk with you,” he said. Then faintly: “I guess
this will be all right.”
“There's somethin' you've forgot,” said Big Kennedy with a chuckle,
as he shook hands with the reputable old gentleman when the latter was
about to depart; “there's a bet you've overlooked.” Then, as the other
seemed puzzled: “You aint got off your bluff about bein' a taxpayer.
But, I understand! This is exec'tive session, an' that crack about bein'
a taxpayer is more of a public utterance. You're keepin' it for th'
stump, most likely.”
“I'll send my son to you to-night,” repeated the reputable old
gentleman, too much in the fog of Big Kennedy's generous figures to heed
his jests about taxpayers. “He'll be here about eight o'clock.”
“That's right!” said Big Kennedy. “The sooner we get th' oil, th' sooner
we'll begin to light up.”
The reputable old gentleman kept his word concerning his son and that
young gentleman's advent. The latter was with us at eight, sharp, and
brought two others of hard appearance to bear him company as a kind of
bodyguard. The young gentleman was slight and superfine, with eyeglass,
mustache, and lisp. He accosted Big Kennedy, swinging a dainty cane the
while in an affected way.
“I'm Mr. Morton--Mr. James Morton,” he drawled. “You know my father.”
Once in the sanctum, and none save Big Kennedy and myself for company,
young Morton came to the question.
“My father's running for Congress. But he's old-fashioned; he doesn't
understand these things.” The tones were confident and sophisticated. I
began to see how the eyeglass, the cane, and the lisp belied our caller.
Under his affectations, he was as keen and cool a hand as Big Kennedy
himself. “No,” he repeated, taking meanwhile a thick envelope from his
frock-coat, “he doesn't understand. The idea of money shocks him, don't
y' know.”
“That's it!” returned Big Kennedy, sympathetically. “He's old-fashioned;
he thinks this thing is like runnin' to be superintendent of a Sunday
school. He aint down to date.”
“Here,” observed our visitor, tapping the table with the envelope, and
smiling to find himself and Big Kennedy a unit as to the lamentable
innocence of his father, “here are twenty one-thousand-dollar bills.
I didn't draw a check for reasons you appreciate. I shall trust you to
make the best use of this money. Also, I shall work with you through the
campaign.”
With that, the young gentleman went his way, humming a tune; and all as
though leaving twenty thousand dollars in the hands of some chance-sown
politician was the common employment of his evenings. When he was
gone, Big Kennedy opened the envelope. There they were; twenty
one-thousand-dollar bills. Big Kennedy pointed to them as they lay on
the table.
“There's the reformer for you!” he said. “He'll go talkin' about Tammany
Hall; but once he himself goes out for an office, he's ready to buy a
vote or burn a church! But say! that young Morton's all right!” Here Big
Kennedy's manner betrayed the most profound admiration. “He's as flossy
a proposition as ever came down th' pike.” Then his glance recurred
doubtfully to the treasure. “I wish he'd brought it 'round by daylight.
I'll have to set up with this bundle till th' bank opens. Some fly guy
might cop a sneak on it else. There's a dozen of my best customers, any
of whom would croak a man for one of them bills.”
The campaign went forward rough and tumble. Big Kennedy spent money
like water, the Red Jackets never slept, while the Tin Whistles met the
plug-uglies of the enemy on twenty hard-fought fields.
The only move unusual, however, was one made by that energetic
exquisite, young Morton. Young Morton, in the thick from the first, went
shoulder to shoulder with Big Kennedy and myself. One day he asked us
over to his personal headquarters.
“You know,” said he, with his exasperating lisp, and daintily adjusting
his glasses, “how there's a lot of negroes to live over this way--quite
a settlement of them.”
“Yes,” returned Big Kennedy, “there's about three hundred votes among
'em. I've never tried to cut in on 'em, because there's no gettin' a
nigger to vote th' Tammany ticket.”
“Three hundred votes, did you say?” lisped the youthful manager. “I
shall get six hundred.” Then, to a black who was hovering about: “Call
in those new recruits.”
Six young blacks, each with a pleasant grin, marched into the room.
“There,” said young Morton, inspecting them with the close air of a
critic, “they look like the real thing, don't they? Don't you think
they'll pass muster?”
“An' why not?” said Big Kennedy. “I take it they're game to swear to
their age, an' have got sense enough to give a house number that's in
th' district?”
“It's not that,” returned young Morton languidly. “But these fellows
aren't men, old chap, they're women, don't y' know! It's the clothes
does it. I'm going to dress up the wenches in overalls and jumpers; it's
my own little idea.”
“Say!” said Big Kennedy solemnly, as we were on our return; “that young
Morton beats four kings an' an ace. He's a bird! I never felt so
much like takin' off my hat to a man in my life. An' to think he's a
Republican!” Here Big Kennedy groaned over genius misplaced. “There's no
use talkin'; he ought to be in Tammany Hall.”
The district which was to determine the destinies of the reputable old
gentleman included two city wards besides the one over which Big Kennedy
held sway. The campaign was not two weeks old before it stood patent to
a dullest eye that Big Kennedy, while crowded hard, would hold his place
as leader in spite of the Tammany Chief and the best efforts he could
put forth. When this was made apparent, while the strife went forward
as fiercely as before, the Chief sent overtures to Big Kennedy. If that
rebellionist would return to the fold of the machine, bygones would be
bygones, and a feast of love and profit would be spread before him. Big
Kennedy, when the olive branch was proffered, sent word that he would
meet the Chief next day. He would be at a secret place he named.
“An' tell him to come alone,” said Big Kennedy to the messenger. “That's
th' way I'll come; an' if he goes to ringin' in two or three for this
powwow, you can say to him in advance it's all off.”
Following the going of the messenger, Big Kennedy fell into a brown
study.
“Do you think you'll deal in again with the Chief and the machine?” I
asked.
“It depends on what's offered. A song an' dance won't get me.”
“But how about the Mortons? Would you abandon them?”
Big Kennedy looked me over with an eye of pity. Then he placed his hand
on my head, as on that far-off day in court.
“You're learnin' politics,” said Big Kennedy slowly, “an' you're showin'
speed. But let me tell you: You must chuck sentiment. Quit th' Mortons?
I'll quit 'em in a holy minute if th' bid comes strong enough.”
“Would you quit your friends?”
“That's different,” he returned. “No man ought to quit his friends. But
you must be careful an' never have more'n two or three, d'ye see. Now
these Mortons aint friends, they're confed'rates. It's as though we
happened to be members of the same band of porch-climbers, that's all.
Take it this way: How long do you guess it would take the Mortons to
sell us out if it matched their little game? How long do you think we'd
last? Well, we'd last about as long as a drink of whisky.” Big Kennedy
met the Chief, and came back shaking his head in decisive negative.
“There's nothin' in it,” he said; “he's all for playin' th' hog. It's
that railway company's deal. Your vote as Alderman, mind you, wins or
loses it! What do you think now he offers to do? I know what he gets. He
gets stock, say two hundred thousand dollars, an' one hundred thousand
dollars in cold cash. An' yet he talks of only splittin' out fifteen
thousand for you an' me! Enough said; we fight him!”
Jimmy the Blacksmith, when, in response to Big Kennedy's hint, he
“followed Gaffney,” pitched his tent in the ward next north of our own.
He made himself useful to the leader of that region, and called together
a somber bevy which was known as the Alley Gang. With that care for
himself which had ever marked his conduct, Jimmy the Blacksmith, and
his Alley Gang, while they went to and fro as shoulder-hitters of
the machine, were zealous to avoid the Tin Whistles, and never put
themselves within their reach. On the one or two occasions when the Tin
Whistles, lusting for collision, went hunting them, the astute Alleyites
were no more to be discovered than a needle in the hay.
“You couldn't find 'em with a search warrant!” reported my disgusted
lieutenant. “I never saw such people! They're a disgrace to th' East
Side.”
However, they were to be found with the last of it, and it would have
been a happier fortune for me had the event fallen the other way.
It was the day of the balloting, and Big Kennedy and I had taken
measures to render the result secure. Not only would we hold our ward,
but the district and the reputable old gentleman were safe. Throughout
the morning the word that came to us from time to time was ever a white
one. It was not until the afternoon that information arrived of sudden
clouds to fill the sky. The news came in the guise of a note from young
Morton:
“Jimmy the Blacksmith and his heelers are driving our people from the
polls.”
“You know what to do!” said Big Kennedy, tossing me the scrap of paper.
With the Tin Whistles at my heels, I made my way to the scene of
trouble. It was full time; for a riot was on, and our men were winning
the worst of the fray. Clubs were going and stones were being thrown.
In the heart of it, I had a glimpse of Jimmy the Blacksmith, a slungshot
to his wrist, smiting right and left, and cheering his cohorts. The
sight gladdened me. There was my man, and I pushed through the crowd to
reach him. This last was no stubborn matter, for the press parted before
me like water.
Jimmy the Blacksmith saw me while yet I was a dozen feet from him. He
understood that he could not escape, and with that he desperately faced
me. As I drew within reach, he leveled a savage blow with the slungshot.
It would have put a period to my story if I had met it. The shot
miscarried, however, and the next moment I had rushed him and pinned him
against the walls of the warehouse in which the precinct's polls were
being held.
“I've got you!” I cried, and then wrenched myself free to give me
distance.
I was to strike no blow, however; my purpose was to find an interruption
in midswing. While the words were between my teeth, something like
a sunbeam came flickering by my head, and a long knife buried itself
vengefully in Jimmy the Blacksmith's throat. There was a choking gurgle;
the man fell forward upon me while the red torrent from his mouth
covered my hands. Then he crumpled to the ground in a weltering heap;
dead on the instant, too, for the point had pierced the spine. In a dumb
chill of horror, I stooped and drew forth the knife. It was that weapon
of the Bowery pawnshop which I had given the Sicilian.