POLITICS.
Peter sat up later than was prudent that night, studying his blank
wall. Yet when he rose to go to bed, he gave his head a puzzled shake.
When he had gone through his papers, and drunk his coffee the next
morning, he went back to wall-gazing again. He was working over two
conundrums not very easy to answer, which were somewhat to this effect:
Does the best man always make the best official?
Is the honest judgment of a fellow verging on twenty-four better than
the experienced opinion of many far older men?
Peter began to think life had not such clear and direct “right” and
“wrong” roads as he had thought. He had said to himself long ago that
it was easy to take the right one, but he had not then discovered that
it is often difficult to know which is the right, in order to follow
it. He had started in to punish Bohlmann, and had compromised. He had
disapproved of Dennis breaking the law, and had compromised his
disapproval. He had said he should not go into saloons, and had ended
by going. Now he was confronted with the problem whether the interests
of his ward would be better served by the nomination of a man of good
record, whom Peter personally liked, or by that of a colorless man, who
would be ruled by the city’s leaders. In the one case Peter feared no
support for his measures from his own party. In the other case he saw
aid that was tantamount to success. Finally he shook himself.
“I believe Dennis is right,” he said aloud. “There are more ‘real’
things than ‘convictions’ in New York politics, and a ‘real’ thing is
much harder to decide about in voting than a ‘conviction.’”
He went to his bedroom, packed his bag, and took his way to the
station. There he found a dense crowd of delegates and “well-wishers,”
both surrounding and filling the special train which was to carry New
York’s contribution to the collected party wisdom, about to concentrate
at Saratoga.
Peter felt like a stranger in the crowd, but on mingling in it he
quickly found himself a marked man. He was seized upon by one of the
diners of the evening before, and soon found himself forming part of a
group, which constantly changed its components, but continued to talk
convention affairs steadily. Nor did the starting of the train, with
cheers, brass bands, flags, and other enthusing elements, make more
than a temporary break. From the time the special started, till it
rolled into Saratoga, six hours later, there was one long series of
political debates and confabs. Peter listened much, and learned much,
for the talk was very straight and plain. He had chats with Costell and
Green. His two fellow-delegates from “de sixt” sought him and discussed
intentions. He liked Schlurger, a simple, guileless German, who wanted
only to do what his constituents wished him to do, both in convention
and Assembly. Of Kennedy he was not so sure. Kennedy had sneered a
little at Peter’s talk about the “best man,” and about “helping the
ward,” and had only found that Peter’s ideas had value after he had
been visited by various of the saloon-keepers, seen the vast torchlight
meeting, and heard the cheers at Peter’s arguments. Still, Peter was by
no means sure that Kennedy was not a square man, and concluded he was
right in not condemning him, when, passing through one of the cars, he
overheard the following:
“What kind of man is that Stirling, who’s raised such —— in the sixth?”
“I don’t know him, but Kennedy told me, before he’d swung round, that
he was a darned good sort of a cuss.”
This was flattery, Peter understood, however questionable the form
might seem, and he was pleased. Very few of us do not enjoy a real
compliment. What makes a compliment uncomfortable is either a suspicion
that the maker doesn’t mean it, or a knowledge that it is not merited.
Peter went at once to his room on reaching the hotel in Saratoga,
intending to make up the sleep of which his long “think” the night
before had robbed him. But scarcely had the colored gentleman bowed
himself out, after the usual “can I git de gentleman a pitcher of ice
water” (which translated means: “has de gentleman any superfluous
change?”) when a knock came at the door. Peter opened it, to find a man
outside.
“Is this Mr. Stirling’s room?” inquired the individual.
“Yes.”
“Can I see him?”
“Come in.” Peter moved his bag off one of his chairs, and his hat and
overcoat off the other.
“Mr. Stirling,” said the stranger as he sat down, “I am Senator
Maguire, and am, as perhaps you know, one of Porter’s managers.”
“Yes.”
“We understand that you are friendly to us. Now, I needn’t say that New
York is otherwise a unit in opposing us.”
“No,” said Peter. “My fellow-delegates from the sixth, Schlurger and
Kennedy, stand as I do!”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“The change must have been very sudden. They were elected as Catlin
men, we were told.”
“Yes. But there’s quite a different feeling in the ward now, and they
have yielded to it.”
“That’s good news.”
“We all three come here prepared to do what seems best.”
The Senator’s expression lost some of the satisfaction Peter’s news had
put into it. He gave a quick look at Peter’s face, as if to try and
find from it what lay behind the words. He hesitated, as if divided in
mind over two courses of action. Finally he said:
“I needn’t tell you that this opposition of practically the whole of
the New York City delegation, is the most serious set-back to Porter’s
chance. Now, we have talked it over, and it seemed to us that it would
be a great card for him if he could be nominated by a city delegate.
Will you do it?”
“I don’t know him well enough, do I? Doesn’t the nominating delegate
have to make a speech in his favor?”
“Yes. But I can give you the material to-night. Or if you prefer, we’ll
give it to you all written for delivery?”
“I don’t make other men’s speeches, Mr. Maguire.”
“Suit yourself about that. It shall be just as you please.”
“The difficulty is that I have not decided myself, yet, how I shall
vote, and of course such an act is binding.”
Mr. Maguire’s countenance changed again. “I’m sorry to hear that. I
hoped you were for Porter. He’s far away the best man.”
“So I think.”
The Senator leaned back in his chair, and tucked his thumbs into the
armholes of his waistcoat. He thought he had fathomed Peter, and felt
that the rest was plain sailing. “This is not a chap to be tolled. I’ll
give him the gaff at once,” was his mental conclusion. Then he asked
aloud:
“What do you want?”
It was a question susceptible of many different constructions, but as
Mr. Maguire asked it, it seemed to him to have but one, and that not
very honest. Peter hesitated. The temptation was strong to lead the
Senator on, but he did not like to do it. It seemed to savor of traps,
and Peter had never liked traps. Still—he did want to know if the
managers on Porter’s side would stoop to buy his support by some
bargain. As Peter hesitated, weighing the pros and cons, Maguire spoke
again.
“What does the other side offer you?”
Peter spoke quickly. “They haven’t offered me anything, but advice.
That is, Costell said he’d try and help me on some legislation I want—”
“Special?” interrupted Maguire.
“No, General. I’ve talked about it with Porter as well”
“Oh! Indeed?”
“I’m really anxious to get that. Otherwise I want nothing.”
“Whew,” said the Senator to himself. “That was a narrow squeak. If he
hadn’t spoken so quickly, I should have shown my hand before the call.
I wonder if he got any inkling?” He never dreamed that Peter had spoken
quickly to save that very disclosure.
“I needn’t say, Mr. Stirling, that if you can see your way to nominate
Porter, we shall not forget it. Nor will he. He isn’t the kind of man
who forgets his friends. Many a man in to-morrow’s convention would
give anything for the privilege we offer you.”
“Well,” said Peter, “I realize the honor offered me, but I don’t see my
way to take it. It will please me better to see him nominated by some
one who has really stood close to him, than to gain his favor by doing
it myself.”
“Think twice, Mr. Stirling.”
“If you would rather, I will not give you my answer till to-morrow
morning?”
“I would,” said Maguire rising, “Try and make it favorable. It’s a
great chance to do good for yourself and for your side. Good-night.”
Peter closed his door, and looked about for a bit of blank wall. But on
second thought he sat down on his window-sill, and, filling his pipe,
tried to draw conclusions as well as smoke from it.
“I wonder,” he pondered to himself, “how much of that was Maguire, and
how much Porter? Ought I, for the sake of doing my best for my ward, to
have let him go on? Has an agent any right to refuse what will help is
client, even if it comes by setting pitfalls?”
Rap, rap, rap.
“Come in,” called Peter, forgetting he had turned down his light.
The door opened and Mr. Costell came in. “Having a quiet smoke?” he
asked.
“Yes. I haven’t a cigar to offer you. Can you join me in a pipe?”
“I haven’t come to that yet. Suppose you try one of my cigars.” Costell
sat down on the window-ledge by Peter.
“Thank you,” said Peter. “I like a cigar, but it must be a good one,
and that kind I can’t afford.” He lit the cigar, and leaned back to
luxuriate in it.
“You’ll like that, I’m sure. Pretty sight, isn’t it?” Costell pointed
to the broad veranda, three stories below them, gay with brilliant
dresses.
“Yes. It’s my first visit here, so it’s new to me.”
“It won’t be your last. You’ll be attending other conventions than
this.”
“I hope so.”
“One of my scouts tells me you’ve had a call from Maguire?”
“Yes.” Peter hesitated a moment. “He wants me to nominate Porter,” he
continued, as soon as he had decided that plain speaking was fair to
Maguire.
“We shall be very sorry to see you do it.”
“I don’t think I shall. They only want me because it would give the
impression that Porter has a city backing, and to try to give that
amounts to a deception.”
“Can they get Schlurger or Kennedy?”
“Schlurger is safe. I don’t know about Kennedy.”
“Can you find out for us?”
“Yes. When would you like to know?”
“Can you see him now? I’ll wait here.”
Peter rose, looking at his cigar with a suggestion of regret. But he
rubbed out the light, and left the room. At the office, he learned the
number of Kennedy’s room, and went to it. On knocking, the door was
opened only a narrow crack.
“Oh! it’s you,” said Kennedy. “Come in.”
Peter entered, and found Maguire seated in an easy attitude on a
lounge. He noticed that his thumbs were once more tucked into his
waistcoat.
“Mr. Kennedy,” said Peter without seating himself, “there is an attempt
being made to get a city delegate to nominate Porter. It seems to me
that is his particular friends’ business.”
Maguire spoke so quickly that Kennedy had no chance to reply:
“Kennedy’s promised to nominate him, Mr. Stirling, if you won’t.”
“Do you feel that you are bound to do it?” asked Peter.
Kennedy moved uneasily in his chair. “Yes, I suppose I have promised.”
“Will you release Mr. Kennedy from his promise if he asks it?” Peter
queried to Maguire.
“Why, Mr. Stirling, I don’t think either he or you ought to ask it.”
“That was not my question.”
It was the Senator’s turn to squirm. He did not want to say no, for
fear of angering Peter, yet he did not like to surrender the advantage.
Finally he said: “Yes, I’ll release him, but Mr. Kennedy isn’t the kind
of a man that cries off from a promise. That’s women’s work.”
“No,” said Kennedy stiffening suddenly in backbone, as he saw the
outlet opened by Maguire, between antagonizing Peter, and retracting
his consent. “I don’t play baby. Not me.”
Peter stood thinking for a longer time than the others found
comfortable. Maguire whistled to prove that he was quite at ease, but
he would not have whistled if he had been.
“I think, Mr. Kennedy, that I’ll save you from the difficulty by
nominating Mr. Porter myself,” said Peter finally.
“Good!” said Maguire; and Kennedy, reaching down into his hip pocket,
produced a version of the holy text not yet included in any
bibliography. Evidently the atmosphere was easier. “About your speech,
Mr. Stirling?” continued the Senator.
“I shall say what I think right.”
Something in Peter’s voice made Maguire say: “It will be of the usual
kind, of course?”
“I don’t know,” said Peter, “I shall tell the facts.”
“What sort of facts?”
“I shall tell how it is that a delegate of the sixth ward nominates
Porter.”
“And that is?”
“I don’t see,” said Peter, “why I need say it. You know it as well as I
do.”
“I know of many reasons why you should do it.”
“No,” said Peter. “There’s only one, and that has been created in the
last ten minutes. Mr. Maguire, if you insist on the sixth ward
nominating Mr. Porter, the sixth ward is going to tell why it does so.
I’m sorry, for I like Porter, but the sixth ward shan’t lend itself to
a fraud, if I can help it.”
Kennedy had been combining things spiritual and aqueous at his
wash-stand. But his interest in the blending seemed suddenly to cease.
Maguire, too, took his thumbs from their havens of rest, and looked
dissatisfied.
“Look here, Mr. Stirling,” he said, “it’s much simpler to leave it to
Kennedy. You think you’re doing what’s right, but you’ll only do harm
to us, and to yourself. If you nominate Porter, the city gang won’t
forgive you, and unless you can say what we want said, we shall be down
on you. So you’ll break with both sides.”
“I think that is so. That is why I want some real friend of Porter’s to
do it.”
Maguire laughed rather a forced laugh. “I suppose we’ve got to satisfy
you. We’ll have Porter nominated by one of our own crowd.”
“I think that’s best. Good-evening.” Peter went to the door.
“Mr. Stirling,” called Kennedy. “Won’t you stay and take some whisky
and water with us?”
“Thank you,” said Peter. “Mr. Costell’s in my room and he must be tired
of waiting.” He closed the door, and walked away.
The couple looked at each other blankly for a moment.
“The —— cuss is playing a double game,” Maguire gasped.
“I don’t know what it means!” said Kennedy.
“Mean?” cried Maguire. “It can mean only one thing. He’s acting under
Costell’s orders.”
“But why should he give it away to us?”
“How the —— should I know? Look here, Kennedy, you must do it, after
all.”
“I don’t want to.”
“Tut, tut, man, you must.”
“But my ward?”
“Come. We’ll make it quarantine, as you want. That’s six years, and you
can —— your ward.”
“I’ll do it.”
“That’s the talk.”
They sat and discussed plans and whisky for nearly an hour. Then
Maguire said good-night.
“You shall have the speech the first thing in the morning,” he said at
parting. Then as he walked down the long corridor, he muttered, “Now
then, Stirling, look out for the hind heel of the mule.”
Peter found Costell still waiting for him.
“It took me longer than I thought, for Maguire was there.”
“Indeed!” said Costell, making room for Peter on the window-ledge.
Peter re-lit his cigar, “Maguire promises me that Porter shall be
nominated by one of his friends.”
“He had been trying Kennedy?”
“I didn’t ask.”
Costell smiled. “I had no business to ask you that?”
“No,” Peter said frankly.
Both puffed their cigars for a time in silence.
Then Costell began talking about Saratoga. He told Peter where the
“Congress” spring was, and what was worth seeing. Finally he rose to
go. He held out his hand, and said:
“Mr. Stirling, you’ve been as true as steel with us, and with the other
men. I don’t want you to suppose we are not conscious of it. I think
you’ve done us a great service to-night, although it might have been
very profitable to you if you had done otherwise. I don’t think that
you’ll lose by it in the long run, but I’m going to thank you now, for
myself. Good-night.”
Peter had a good night. Perhaps it was only because he was sleepy, but
a pleasant speech is not a bad night-cap. At least it is better than a
mental question-mark as to whether one has done wrong. Peter did not
know how it was coming out, but he thought he had done right, and need
not spend time on a blank wall that evening.