NOT ON THE PROGRAMME
In a few days occurred the Citizens' convention. A formidable array of
men was there; business and professional men, leaders in the city's
activities. It was an array which might well set the forces that
controlled the city government to worrying. Moreover, real enthusiasm
ruled the assemblage, and when Colonel Westlake, in a fiery nominating
speech, named Theodore Packard, one of the city's leading merchants, for
the mayoralty, thunderous demonstrations attested the temper of the
delegates.
Under the aggressive leadership of Colonel Westlake, the Fusionists had
taken time by the forelock and were first in the field with a strong
ticket. Warm hopes were entertained for it this year. Republicans, who
were greatly in the minority in the city, had taken the initiative in
starting the Fusion movement, which was strengthened by the open avowal
of some of the community's best known men, of Democratic allegiance,
that they were done with Shaughnessy and his methods. The movement
appeared to be gaining in force and bulk, like a snowball rolling down
hill, as the hour approached for the Democratic convention, toward which
all eyes were now turning.
There were indications that the entrenched, corrupt forces which
dominated the city were getting ready to invite their own destruction.
Was it not Shaughnessy who held the whip hand, and was not Shaughnessy
going crazy? Verily, it seemed so, and Shaughnessy, apparently drunk
with the power invested in his acquired authority, seemed likely to
exercise it to his own destruction. "The man is mad," remarked the
leaders of the Citizens' movement, one to the other, and rubbed their
hands. For Shaughnessy's candidate for the nomination, the man for whom,
as he calmly stated, the convention would, at his word, vote as one man,
was so notoriously inadequate, so miserably unfit, that the prospect of
his nomination set a resentful growl to circulating even among many of
the chosen delegates to the Democratic, otherwise the Shaughnessy,
convention. Dare Shaughnessy, so cocksure of his evil hold upon the
city, thrust such a candidate upon his party? Certain of Shaughnessy's
supporters grumbled, while the leaders of the Citizens' movement ground
their teeth and figuratively removed their coats.
True to his promise to Shaughnessy, on the occasion of that worthy's
call upon the owner of the Courier, Colonel Westlake's paper was firing
hot shot at the local boss. The effrontery and callous indifference to
all considerations, save his own sweet will, which Shaughnessy was
displaying in his choice of a candidate for the mayoralty, was dished up
daily, in attractive and toothsome guise, for the Courier's readers.
Westlake was certainly pounding Shaughnessy.
Meanwhile, strange whispers began circulating around the town, things
that savored of disloyalty to Shaughnessy. The unpopularity of the
candidate, whose fortunes he had espoused, was evidently breeding a
revolt among Shaughnessy's followers, of which he seemed strangely
oblivious. At all events, he was wholly indifferent to it. To add
seriousness to the situation, some of the boss' most trusted lieutenants
had been heard to utter words that sounded strangely from the lips of
faithful followers. These little seeds of dissension were sown
cautiously, but they fell where they seemed sure to bring forth the
fruit of contention. When ex-Alderman Goldberg, supposed to be retired
from politics, the lanky Dick Peterson, and the moon-faced Willie Shute,
men known to have been for years identified with Shaughnessy's
interests, began treacherously knifing him, the Fusionists pricked up
their ears and polished their eyeglasses. Might there not be a
disastrous factional Democratic fight?
The day before the convention occurred there was a tense, growing
expectancy through the city, a vague, intangible premonition of an
unguessed something on the morrow. What is was to be nobody knew, but
that there was a rift in the Shaughnessy lute,--or "loot," as one
Fusionist wag expressed it,--was now plainly apparent to all parties.
The existence of a plot against him was recognized, yet Shaughnessy made
no sign. His insolent programme was known; he proposed on the morrow to
thrust his preposterously unfit candidate for the mayoralty, together
with a few other objectionable nominees for divers offices, down the
throat of the convention. The programme of the opposition was not known,
but Goldberg, Peterson and Shute, with others whose fidelity to the
interests of the boss had hitherto been unquestioned, had been busy.
They had toward the end thrown off the pretense of secrecy and had
declared the boss' programme to be suicidal to the chances of Democratic
success. The array of malcontents grew larger and more formidable. It
was increased by the well circulated report that Goldberg had tried to
remonstrate with the boss and been freezingly turned down.
"The delegates won't stand for it, Shaughnessy," Goldberg had said.
"It's out of all reason."
The sneer in Shaughnessy's reply had inflamed an army of hitherto
faithful adherents against him. "The delegates will do as I dictate," he
had said. "This convention, let me tell you, will name my ticket, and
the kickers will be kicked out of the party."
Surely Shaughnessy was going mad. "I understand he said lately that he
didn't intend to figure in local politics much longer," said Colonel
Westlake one day to the Fusionist candidate for the mayoralty, Theodore
Packard, though without apprising him of the circumstances under which
the boss made that statement. "Well, do you know, I begin to believe
this dissension in their ranks has been brewing for some time. 'When
thieves fall out,' you know. I think he foresaw this scrap and is
risking the issue on a last desperate game, which he is growing rather
afraid of losing."
"Yes, but why is he espousing such a notorious ticket?" inquired
Packard. "It seems to me that he is beaten in advance, with a handicap
like that, and ought to have sense enough to know it."
"He probably had his programme laid out months ago," replied the
Colonel, "when he felt more secure than he does now. His opponents are
cunning. They played foxy Judas till the last moment, and then they
began to knife him. It's a slick game. He can't back down now, he's got
to stand by his guns. To knuckle would be a confession of weakness, and
that would be fatal. It looks to me as if he had a Waterloo coming in
his own camp. They've got something up their sleeve, depend upon it. I
wish I knew what it was."
Decidedly, the ordinary expressionless face of Shaughnessy, could he
have heard this conversation, would have been worth seeing.
The momentous autumn day, peaceful and delightful, was in strong
contrast to the turbulent scene within the hall, just before the
Democratic convention was called to order. The galleries were packed
with a nervous crowd, ripe for anticipated excitement. That something
big, not on the card, was about to happen, everyone was confident. And
once and again the eyes of the massed, fitful throng of spectators
searched out Shaughnessy, standing unobtrusively in a corner of the
great hall, always surrounded by excited, gesticulating delegates.
Shaughnessy was evidently saying little and his dead black eyes and
ghastly face expressed less. Yet the thousands of eyes turned hungrily
to him again and again, for the impression had gone forth that in some
way the mute, mysterious boss was to be offered as a sacrifice, to the
ends of treacherous associates, on the altar of his own unscrupulous
ambition.
Micky O'Byrn, of the Courier, detailed to do the descriptive touches of
the convention, viewed Shaughnessy curiously from his position at the
rear of the hall. "He looks like his own funeral," thought Micky, "but
then, that's chronic with him." His gaze wandered interestedly over the
mass of excited delegates swarming about the floor; his ears sought
instinctively to gather something definite from the swelling babel of
speech. Suddenly a low-toned voice sounded at his elbow in a
communication evidently intended for a single ear, and that not Micky's.
O'Byrn's rapid sidelong glance verified his supposition. It was
Goldberg, speaking softly to a delegate.
"Tom Grady, he'll do the trick," said Goldberg, and the two moved away.
Micky whistled softly. "Good move!" he remarked quietly to himself.
"He'll take 'em by storm." For it was evident that it was Tom Grady, the
city's youngest and most fiery Democratic orator, who was to nominate
the opponent to Shaughnessy's man. But who was this opponent? Micky
wrinkled his brows, and, like the crowd in the galleries and many of the
delegates themselves, fell to speculating, for the extraordinary thing
about the situation was that while everybody was sure an opponent would
be produced, nobody knew who he would be.
But now the convention was rapped to order, and delegates and audience
alike fell into uneasy silence. The roll was called, the credentials
were handed in, and in due time the temporary chairman retired in favor
of the permanent incumbent. His selection had been railroaded through
before it dawned upon the gathering that he was one of Shaughnessy's
strongest adherents. So the boss had scored one. Dave Mulhill could be
relied upon to look after him.
With the chair's call for nominations the excitement increased. It had
rather been expected that, at this critical point of his political
fortunes, Shaughnessy would decide to speak for himself, though he had
never done so. He did not, however, and his man, Dennis Burns, was
placed in nomination by Charles Heferman, a young lawyer who had of late
dulled a formerly bright reputation by known dealings with the gang that
ruled the city. Heferman's effort was able, though no enthusiasm was
evident. No one could have grown enthusiastic over Shaughnessy's
candidate.
Heferman finished and sat down, amid a ripple of perfunctory applause
that boded ill for the boss' prospects. At that moment Micky O'Byrn
chanced to be looking across the hall straight at Shaughnessy. The
sinister face was unmoved, but the black eyes, momentarily alight with
unwonted fire, were fixed intently at a point about midway of the hall.
In that instant Micky's keen vision beheld something that acted upon his
intelligence like a galvanic battery, swiftly launching his wits upon
previously unguessed channels of absorbing and profitable speculation.
"Next in order, nominations of President of the Council," announced Dave
Mulhill from the chair, even before the faint applause which had greeted
Heferman's speech had died away. The chairman's words produced an angry
hubbub, and his evident reluctance to recognize a gentleman who was on
his feet, demanding attention, had the effect of fanning the latent
antagonism against the machine to a brighter blaze. Not until sundry
groans and cries of "Gag!" and "Fair play!" were heard did Chairman
Mulhill deign to recognize Hon. Thomas Grady, now known to all as the
spokesman of the opposition.
Intense silence prevailed as Mr. Grady, recognized already as one of
the leaders of the legislature, was reluctantly accorded the privilege
of the floor. A silver tongue he had indeed, and a voice like the
mellow, dulcet notes of an organ. Over six feet in height and with the
bulk and carriage of a Viking, his handsome face flushed and his blue
eyes alight with battle, he was a figure to command admiration. Added to
these a splendid gift of oratory, the whole produced a combination of
magnetic charm which they used to say was fairly hypnotizing to an
audience.
The howl of delight with which the assemblage received the ironical
acknowledgment of the speaker to the chairman, for the privilege of the
floor, indicated its temper toward Shaughnessy. The words of the orator
flowed on, gathering fire as he warmed to the subject of the hopes and
prospects of the city Democracy. He warned them that it was a critical
moment, that the Fusionists had nominated a strong ticket. "It is one
that we must reckon with," he declared. "You and I, secure in the
knowledge of the good our party has done our beloved municipality, will
utterly disclaim the necessity for this absurdly mistaken movement on
the part of our friends, the visionary enemy. But even if that enemy be
composed of so many wild-eyed Don Quixotes, mounted on their hobbies and
fighting windmills, yet, friends, the issue, however ridiculous, is
here." He turned and looked straight at Shaughnessy. "Gentlemen, it is
as yet unmet. This is not a moment for any false and perhaps fatal step.
We owe it to ourselves to meet the enemy with a front that shall be
utterly unassailable to his assaults."
Pausing imperturbably till the resultant applause had died away, the
orator proceeded, in glowing periods, to discourse of the sovereignty of
the people, of their right to choose their leaders, of the moment which
had now arrived to reaffirm their convictions and pursue the highest of
party ideals. While the address continued some clever, covert digs at
Shaughnessy, the speaker, after the manner of his suave tribe, avoided
the quagmires of ugly suspicions and half-guessed corruption that had
characterized his party's administration of affairs during recent years.
With consummate tact he rather confined himself to broad generalities
that fired the blood of his auditors and did not remind them of things
that would chill enthusiasm. Mr. Grady urged them only to take the right
step in time, to meet strength with strength,--this with another
challenging look at Shaughnessy,--to enter the battle equipped for
victory rather than defeat.
Now he was approaching the end of his discourse and had not named his
candidate. They had hung upon every word, had drunk in the golden
sentences that thrilled, that satisfied, yet did not reveal the name of
the mysterious champion whose candidacy the orator was advocating. As he
swung into his peroration, the piqued curiosity of the people had become
almost pain. They were ripe for a shrieking chaos of enthusiasm, and he
knew it. So, with gathered forces, with flashing eyes and voice that
rang like a trumpet, he figuratively fired the powder train.
"And now," he cried, "you are awaiting the announcement of the man whose
name among men is one to conjure with; the man, strong, able and of good
repute, the man who is no man's man--" with a defiant gesture toward
Shaughnessy that awakened tremendous enthusiasm,--"the man whose
nomination here today means victory. Gentlemen, it is with pleasure that
I nominate for the mayoralty of this city a man known to you all for
years, for years the trusted, honored servant of our people; a man of
achievement, of renown, of probity, of independence, of superb ability;
a man who, under God, will rule for righteousness' sake and wear no
man's collar; in a word, that distinguished jurist and gentleman, Judge
Rufus Atwell Boynton!"
A roar like many waters followed, a roar like thunderous, storm-driven
breakers upon a lonely beach, a roar of exultation. Lulling for a
moment, the deafening din broke out afresh, again and again, as if it
would never cease. Men cheered till they could no longer cheer, but
squawked like chickens; standing with empurpled faces, brandishing their
arms, cackling strangely, with ludicrous effort and with distended,
bloodshot eyes. The gavel fell in vain; only a cannonade could have been
heard in that babel of sound. As soon as the noise abated, through sheer
force of physical exhaustion, a vote was railroaded through, the hostile
chairman being helpless before the fierce faces and voices of this mob,
for such it had become under the electrifying lash of Grady's words.
Judge Boynton was nominated by an overwhelming majority, even drawing
from the forces pledged to the fortunes of the Shaughnessy candidate.
The tumult broke out again.
It was suddenly stilled. O'Byrn, from his chair near the rear, saw a
thin white hand raised deprecatingly, marked a sardonic white face and
inscrutable eyes, whose owner silently demanded attention. It was
yielded with a promptness that was uncanny. Then Shaughnessy, erect in
the midst of his ward delegation, spoke. His thin voice with a cold,
underlying sneer, cut the air like a knife, penetrating to every corner
of the hall.
"The majority rules," said Shaughnessy. "It is customary, in similar
case, to move a unanimous nomination. I so move." The deposed boss sat
down. The resultant applause was rather faint. Shaughnessy had somehow
chilled the enthusiasm.
To Micky O'Byrn, sitting with knitted brows as the other nominations,
involving a complete demolition of the Shaughnessy ticket, were hurried
through, there was food for much serious thought and conjecturing. He
noted the new candidate as he was brought before the convention and
introduced, amid great enthusiasm, by Hon. Thomas Grady. He was older
than Micky had imagined and he seemed wearied, almost ill. Still,
reflected O'Byrn,--as he listened to the candidate's short speech of
appreciation and of assurances for the future, in the event of
election,--it seemed strange that the Judge should not display more
enthusiasm over an honor which had come to him so signally. Then he fell
again to pondering, striving to put two and two together.
That the outcome seriously threatened the Fusionist movement was
undeniable. In fact, that ticket was as good as defeated already, for it
was robbed of an issue. Judge Boynton was a strong candidate, every whit
as strong as Theodore Packard and in similar ways. Incredible as it
might seem, Shaughnessy had been humiliated, practically kicked out by
his party. But how had it happened? Micky frowned. "There's a nigger
somewhere," he reflected, "if the coon could only be found."
At the close of the convention Micky was walking thoughtfully down the
street toward the office. It was then dusk and the lamps were being
lighted. Someone joined Micky and quietly fell into pace with him.
O'Byrn glanced up. It was Slade.
"Funny thing that, over at the convention," remarked Micky. "I should
have thought Shaughnessy was solid."
"Yes," answered Slade, placidly. "I should have naturally thought he
was."
"Were you there?"
"You bet."
"Then tell me whether Shaughnessy gave Tom Grady the wink to spiel this
afternoon," pursued Micky, "or is it my eyes?"
Slade looked at him keenly, then laughed quietly. "I'm sayin'
nothing--yet," said he, "but your eyes seem O. K. to me."