At Work
The new mayor's inauguration into office was an event which will go down
in the history of Roma as witnessing the greatest crowd of citizens of
both sexes in City Hall which that temple of the money-changers ever saw.
Both the friends and the enemies of the new administration were out in
full force, and Gertrude Van Deusen's speech, accepting her new
responsibilities, found ready response in many a heart which was
thrilled by her words for the first time that day. The women of Roma
turned out en masse and the old City Hall was not spacious enough to
shelter all that came.
But it was when she took actual possession of the handsomely appointed
office of the mayor, that she realized fully she was face to face with
the greatest problem of her life. For now she had access to the inner
temple of the mysteries of city government. She had already provided
against the sex-awkwardness of her situation by installing as private
secretary, Mary Snow, of the Atlas.
"Don't tell me no," she had urged when she offered Mary the position. "I
must have a broad-minded, capable woman there who has had experience and
knowledge of affairs. I know of nothing that could give a woman this
kind of insight into public matters, like newspaper work of the kind you
have done."
"But there are other newspaper women," began Mary--
"Yes, I know there are," replied Gertrude Van Deusen. "But a woman must
have personal character and dignity and personal honor to fill this
position, as well as the aforesaid experience."
And Mary Snow had accepted the place, to the joy of all other newspaper
workers; for the gatherer of news is always rejoiced to find a newspaper
man or woman ready to serve them when they are sent out for information
by their chiefs. As the new mayor believed in publicity she soon had the
sworn support of most of the newspaper men who came near City Hall. Her
stenographer, too, was an attractive young woman and the feminine
element soon became evident in all that part of the building devoted to
the mayor's use. Flowers bloomed in the windows, an early and thorough
house cleaning took place, and the cuspidors which had been conspicuous
at every turn were banished,--all but the occasional one which must be
left for the stranded politician who could not wait until he got out of
doors. Signs were placed in various parts of the building, calling
attention to the new waste-baskets, and prohibiting smoking and
expectoration.
From time immemorial, City Hall had been a loafing place for seedy
politicians, active and retired, who passed their time plotting for the
next campaign in the free seats provided by the City Fathers. One
morning these individuals found no chairs,--absolutely none except those
used by the officials and clerical force. They called the janitor and
expostulated volubly, but all to no effect.
"She's banished 'em, boys," he said. "It would be as much as my place is
worth to bring 'em back. The boys say she ain't agoin' to have no
heelers 'round here, nohow."
With this they had to be content--after they had grumbled long
enough--to go away and hunt up new quarters. For once, there was a City
Hall with clean corridors, no tobacco smoke, and no loafers.
From the moment of her entrance into office, office-seekers and
office-holders beset Gertrude Van Deusen until she began to doubt if
there would be time left for the pursuance of any other duty in life
than to appease them. She learned, quickly enough, to shunt these off on
her private secretary; but while she did not propose to discharge good
men, she found that there must be good counsellors at hand for her own
safety. At the end of her first week she called for the resignation of
the city solicitor, McAdoo, who was rather glad than otherwise to "cut
loose from petticoat government," as he expressed it. His place she
filled at once by giving Bailey Armstrong the position.
The Common Council was made up of eighteen men, about half of whom were
new to the position, so that it remained to be seen how far they could
be depended upon to support any radical reform instituted by the new
mayor; but as Geoffrey Mason and Albert Turner had finally consented to
run on "the woman ticket" and had been elected, she felt that she might
count on their influence, at least, and hoped to win over others. There
were perhaps half a dozen, besides, on the "woman ticket"--every one of
whom were men who would have declined to serve with any other mayor; but
having pledged their word to "see her through" and been elected, they
fulfilled their pledge now, like the staunch, good citizens they were.
With this backing she felt that she might hope to carry out the work she
had undertaken.
There were many things to harass her, however, chief among them being
that the board of aldermen were strongly against her, men of the old
regime mostly, ready to fight against any radical reforms and to begin
work already to defeat her most cherished plans.
"She's in for two years, worse luck," said one of them. "But we'll tie
her hands so she can't do too much mischief. A mayor's only a mayor,
after all," with which significant utterance he winked solemnly to the
reporter who was interviewing him for the _Screamer_.
But the new mayor went serenely on with her new duties, and if she knew
all these things, gave no sign; apparently, the machinery of municipal
government was running on well-oiled wheels until even the most ardent
of her supporters began to wonder when she was "going to get busy."
But she was busy. The new mayor had a constructive imagination and did
not fear big ideas. She dreamed already of a warfare against
privilege--the privileges of the franchise corporations, the privileges
of unjust taxation, and ultimately the privilege of private monopoly.
Graft must be stamped out of the city administration, and a high order
of men elected to the bench. Some big things must be accomplished in the
city.
She had arrived at the conclusion that to most people the municipality
is an industrial accident, its government rather a matter of police,
fire and health administration, some public schools and a police court,
a street and water department; that they wanted just enough of these
things, and at the lowest possible cost, to enable men to go about their
daily business.
"That," she said to herself, "is the average man's conception of the
uses of a municipality. Some day we shall look back upon such an idea of
a city as we now look back upon the straggling tepees of an Indian
village. The city of tomorrow will be a people's city, doing countless
things, all for the welfare of the people."
"And you expect to put that idea into practice here?" asked Mary Snow
somewhat incredulously, as they sat at lunch together after a morning of
hard work. "You expect Roma to stand for all that!"
"Her Honor" smiled back across the table. "Yes," she said, "I expect to
start things in that direction, and to create such a public interest
that my successor will be chosen especially to carry on the work that I
mean to begin. I know of one city which already views these things as a
necessary part of a good city's administration. It is not content with
doing as few things as possible; it does as many things as possible for
its people. Its public bath-houses give hundreds of thousands of baths
every year. They are equipped with gymnasiums, where public instructors
teach the children. Thousands of families are entertained free of cost
by the baseball games played upon the public diamonds scattered all over
the city. A number of city leagues have been organized, composed of
clerks and workingmen. In the winter, skating carnivals are held and two
score artificial skating ponds are maintained. The children are invited
to the parks for May-day and romping-day festivals. All of these things
not only enlarge the life of the people, but also identify them with the
city in a way that was not dreamed of a few years ago. By following
these lines, Roma may be a people's city, a city that serves, that
brings happiness to thousands whose life is otherwise encompassed with
the dreary drudgery of toil."
"If you could bring such an ideal state of things to pass," said Mary
Snow, "Roma would call you blessed among women. And you would never be
allowed to stop being mayor."
"Well," returned Gertrude, "the best way to fight the saloon is to offer
a substitute greater in interest. In my ideal city not only will there
be plenty of free baseball diamonds, but also golf links and tennis
courts, to invite thousands of people into the city's pleasure resorts.
A dozen playgrounds will be laid out in the congested districts. Here
trained men will teach the children of the poor how to play. These
children will be taken from the street. They will be saved from the
reformatory. They will be given good bodies to live in. In this way the
work of the police department will be diminished, for one playground is
the equivalent of several patrolmen. And it does not cost one-quarter as
much. Who knows but our Roma of tomorrow will do these things on a
grander scale than any of our cities have yet attempted? It will rival
the saloon and bring opportunities for recreation and happiness within
easy access of the poorest man's home."
But Mary Snow did not answer. She had caught Bailey Armstrong's smile as
he passed down the room, and even the ideal city faded into
insignificance as a warm thrill called the color into her cheeks, and
made Gertrude say as she glanced up at her:
"How pretty you look, Mary. I wouldn't suppose you were a day over
eighteen."