THE ELECTION
Tom set out for Potomac Hall Wednesday evening with the emotions of a
gambler who had placed his fortune on a single color; his all was risked
on the event of that night. However, he had a bracing confidence running
through his agitation; he felt that he controlled the arrow of fortune.
The man to man canvass; the feminine influence made operative by Mrs.
Barry; the letters with which Ruth had helped him,--these, he was
certain, had drawn the arrow's head to the spot where rested his stake
and the union's.
Tom reached the hall at six-thirty. The polls did not open till seven,
but already thirty or forty of Foley's men stood in knots in front of
the building.
"Hello, boys! Now don't he think he's It!" said one admiringly.
"Poor Buck! This's the last o' him!" groaned another.
There was a burst of derisive laughter, and each of the party tossed a
bit of language in his way; but Tom made no answer and passed them
unflinchingly. At the doorway he was stopped by the policeman who was
regularly stationed at Potomac Hall on meeting nights.
"Goin' to have a fist sociable to-night?" the policeman asked,
anxiously watching the men in the street.
"Can't say, Murphy. Ask Foley. He'll be floor manager, if there is one."
As he went through the hallway toward the stairs, Tom paused to glance
through a side door into the big bar-room, which, with a café, occupied
the whole of the first floor. A couple of score of Foley men stood at
the bar and sat about the tables. It certainly did look as if there
might be festivities.
Tom mounted the broad stairway and knocked at the door of the union's
hall. Hogan, the sergeant-at-arms, a Foley man, gingerly admitted him.
The hall in which he found himself was a big rectangular room, perhaps
fifty by one hundred feet. The walls had once been maroon in color, and
had a broad moulding of plaster that had been white and gilt; the
ceiling had likewise once been maroon, and was decorated with
plaster scroll-work and crudely painted clusters of fruits and
flowers--scroll-work and paintings lacking their one-time freshness.
From the center of the ceiling hung a great ball of paper roses; at the
front of the room was a grand piano in a faded green cover. The sign
advertising the hall, nailed on the building's front, had as its last
clause: "Also available for weddings, receptions, and balls."
Tom's glance swept the room. All was in readiness for the election. The
floor was cleared of its folding chairs, they being now stacked at the
rear of the room; down the hall's middle ran a row of tables, set end to
end, with chairs on either side; Bill Jackson, one of his supporters,
was at Hogan's elbow, ready to hand out the ballots as the men were
admitted; the five tellers--Barry, Pete, Jake and two other Foley
men--were smoking at the front of the room, Jake lolling on the piano,
and the other four on the platform where the officers sat at the regular
meetings.
Tom joined Pete and Barry, and the three drew to one side to await the
opening of the door. "Anything new?" Tom asked.
"Nothin'," answered Pete. "But say, Tom, that letter was certainly hot
stuff! I've heard some o' the boys talkin' about it. They think it's
great. It's bringin' a lot o' them out."
"That's good."
"An' we're goin' to win, sure."
Tom nodded. "If Foley don't work some of his tricks."
"Oh, we'll look out for that," said Pete confidently.
Promptly at seven o'clock Hogan unlocked the door. The men began to
mount the stairway. As each man came to the door Hogan examined his
membership card, and, if it showed the holder to be in good standing,
admitted him. Jackson then handed him a ballot, on which the names of
all the candidates were printed in a vertical row, and he walked to one
of the tables and made crosses before the names of the men for whom he
desired to vote.
Five minutes after the door had been opened there were thirty or forty
men in the room, an equal number of each party, Foley among them. Jake,
who was chief teller, rose at the center table on the platform to
discharge the formality of offering the ballot-box for inspection. He
unlocked the box, which was about twelve inches square, and performing a
slow arc presented the open side to the eyes of the tellers and the
waiting members. The box was empty.
"All right?" he asked.
"Sure," said the men carelessly. The tellers nodded.
Foley began the telling of a yarn, and was straightway the center of the
group of voters. In the meantime Jake locked the box and started to
carry it to its appointed place on a table at one end of the platform,
to reach which he had to pass through the narrow space between the wall
and the chair-backs of the other tellers. As he brushed through this
alley, Tom, whose eyes had not left him, saw the ballot-box turn so that
its slot was toward the wall, and glimpsed a quick motion of Jake's hand
from a pocket toward the slot--a motion wholly of the wrist. He sprang
after the chief teller and seized his hand.
"You don't work that game!" he cried.
Foley's story snapped off. His hearers pivoted to face the disturbance.
Jake turned about. "What game?"
"Open your hand!" Tom demanded.
Jake elevated his big fist, then opened it. It held nothing. He laughed
derisively, and set the box down in its place. A jeering shout rose from
Foley's crowd.
For an instant Tom was taken aback. Then he stepped quickly to the
table and gave the box a light shake. He triumphantly raised it on high
and shook it violently. From it there came an unmistakable rattle.
"This's how Foley'd win!" he cried to the crowd.
Jake, his derision suddenly changed to fury, would have struck Tom in
another instant, for all his wits were in his fists; but the incisive
voice of Foley sounded out: "A clever trick, Keating."
"How's that?" asked several men.
"A trick to cast suspicion on us," Foley answered quietly. "Keating put
'em in there himself."
Tom stared at him, then turned sharply upon Jake. "Give me the key. I'll
show who those ballots are for."
Jake, not understanding, but taking his cue from Foley, handed over the
key. Tom unlocked the box, and took out a handful of tightly-folded
ballots. He opened several of them and held them up to the crowd. The
crosses were before the Foley candidates.
"Of course I put 'em in!" Tom said sarcastically, looking squarely at
Foley.
"O' course youse did," Foley returned calmly. "To cast suspicion on us.
It's a clever trick, but it's what I call dirty politics."
Tom made no reply. His eyes had caught a slight bulge in the pocket of
Jake's coat from which he had before seen Jake's hand emerge
ballot-laden. He lunged suddenly toward the chief teller, and thrust a
hand into the pocket. There was a struggle of an instant; the crowd saw
Tom's hand come out of the pocket filled with packets of paper; then
Tom broke loose. It all happened so quickly that the crowd had no time
to move. The tellers rose just in time to lay hands upon Jake, who was
hurling himself upon Tom in animal fury.
Tom held the ballots out toward Foley. They were bound in packets half
an inch thick by narrow bands of papers which were obviously to be
snapped as the packet was thrust into the slot of the box. "I suppose
you'll say now, Buck Foley, that I put these in Henderson's pocket!"
For once Foley was at a loss. Part of the crowd cursed and hissed him.
His own men looked at him expectantly, but the trickery was too apparent
for his wits to be of avail. He glared straight ahead, rolling his cigar
from side to side of his mouth.
Tom tossed the ballots into the open box. "Enough votes there already to
elect Foley. Now I demand another teller instead of that man." He jerked
his head contemptuously toward Jake.
Foley's composure was with him again. "Anything to please youse, Tom. I
guess nobody's got a kick again' Connelly. Connelly, youse take Jake's
place."
As the exchange was being made the Foleyites regarded their leader
dubiously; not out of disapproval of his trickery, but because his
attempted jugglery had failed. Foley had recourse again to his
confidence-compelling glance--eyes narrowed and full of mystery. "It's
only seven-thirty, boys!" he said in an impressive whisper, and turned
and went out. Jake glowered at Tom and followed him.
Tom transferred the ballots from the box to his pockets, locked the box,
turned over the key to the tellers, and was resuming his seat when he
saw a man of disordered dress at the edge of the platform, who had been
anxiously awaiting the end of this episode, beckoning him. Tom quickly
stepped to his side. "What's the matter?"
"Hell's broke loose downstairs, Tom," said the man. "Come down."
"Look out for any more tricks," Tom called to Pete, and hurried out. The
stairway was held from top to bottom by a line of Foley men. Foley
supporters were marching up, trading rough jests with these guardsmen;
but not a single man of his was on the stairs. He saw one of his men
start up, and receive a shove in the chest that sent him upon his back.
A laugh rose from the line. Tom's fists knotted and his eyes filled with
fire. The head guardsman tried to seize him, and got one of the fists in
the face.
"Look out, you----!" He swore mightily at the line, and plunged downward
past the guards, who were held back by a momentary awe. The man below
rose to his feet, hotly charged, and was sent staggering again. Tom,
descending, caught the assailant by the collar, and with a powerful jerk
sent him sprawling upon the floor. He turned fiercely upon the line. But
before he could even speak, half of it charged down upon him, overbore
him and swept him through the open door into the street. Then they
melted away from him and returned to their posts.
Tom, bruised and dazed, would have followed the men back through the
doorway, but his eyes came upon a new scene. On his either hand in the
street, which was weakly illumined by windows and corner lights, several
scuffles were going on, six or seven in each; groups of Foley men were
blocking the way of his supporters, and blows and high words were
passing; farther away he could dimly see his men standing about in
hesitant knots--having not the reckless courage to attempt passage
through such a rowdy sea.
The policeman was trying to quell one of the scuffles with his club. Tom
saw it twisted from his hand. Murphy drew his revolver. The club sent it
spinning. He turned and walked quickly out of the street.
All this Tom saw in two glances. The man beside him swore. "Send for the
police, Tom. Nothing else'll save us." His voice barely rose above the
cries and oaths.
"It won't do, Smith. We'd never hear the last of it."
And yet Tom realized, with instant quickness, the hopelessness of the
situation. Against Foley's organized ruffianism, holding hall and
street, his unorganized supporters, standing on the outskirts, could do
nothing. There was but one thing to be done--to get to his men, organize
them in some way, wait till their number had grown, and then march in a
body to the ballot-box.
Ten seconds after his discharge into the street Tom was springing away
on this errand, when out of the tail of his eye he saw Foley come to the
door and glance about. He wheeled and strode up to the walking
delegate.
"Is this your only way of winning an election?" he cried hotly.
"Well! well! They're mixin' it up a bit, ain't they," Foley drawled,
looking over Tom's head. "That's too bad!"
"Don't try any of your stage business on me! Stop this fighting!"
"What could I do?" Foley asked deprecatingly. "If I tried, I'd only get
my nut cracked." And he turned back into the hall.
"Come on!" Tom cried to Smith; and together they plunged eastward, in
which direction were the largest number of Tom's friends. Before they
had gone a dozen paces they were engulfed in the fray. Several of his
men swept in from the outskirts to his support; more Foley men rushed
into the conflict; the fight that had before been waged in skirmishes
was now a general engagement. For a space that seemed an hour to Tom,
but that in reality was no more than its quarter, it was struggle at the
top of his strength. He warded off blows. He stung under fists. He
struck out at dim faces. He swayed fiercely in grappling arms. He sent
men down. He went down again and again himself. And oaths were gasped
and shouted, and deep-lunged cries battered riotously against the
street's high walls.... And so it was all around him--a writhing,
striking, kicking, swearing whirlpool of men, over whose fierce
turbulence fell the dusky light of bar-room and tenement windows.
After a time, when his breath was coming in gasps, and his strength was
well-nigh gone, he saw the vindictive face of Jake Henderson, with the
bar-room's light across it, draw nearer and nearer through the
struggling mob. If Jake should reach him, spent as he was----He saw his
limp, outstretched body as in a vision.
But Jake's vengeance did not then fall. Tom heard a cry go up and run
through the crowd: "Police! Police!" In an instant the whirlpool half
calmed. The cry brought to their feet the two men who had last borne him
down. Tom scrambled up, saw the mob untangle itself into individuals,
and saw, turning the corner, a squad of policemen, clubs drawn, Murphy
marching at the captain's side.
The captain drew his squad up beside the doorway of the hall, and
himself mounted the two steps. "If there's any more o' this rough house,
I'll run in every one o' you!" he shouted, shaking his club at the men.
The Foleyites laughed, and defiance buzzed among them, but they knew the
better part of valor. It was a Foley principle to observe the law when
the law is observing you.
Five minutes later the captain's threat was made even more potent for
order by the appearance of the reserves from another precinct; and in a
little while still another squad leaped from clanging patrol wagons,
making in all fifty policemen that had answered Murphy's call. Twenty of
these were posted in the stairway, and the rest were placed on guard in
the street.
A new order came from the bar-room, and Foley's men withdrew to beyond
the limits of police influence and intercepted the men coming to vote,
using blandishment and threats, and leading some into the bar-room to be
further convinced.
Tom, who stood outside watching the restoration of order, now started
back to the hall. On the way he glanced through the side door into the
bar-room. It was heavy with smoke, and at the bar was a crowd, with
Foley as its center. "I don't know what youse think about Keating
callin' in the police," he was saying, "but youse can bet I know what
Buck Foley thinks! A man that'll turn the police on his own union!" And
then as a fresh group of men were led into the room: "Step right up to
the counter, boys, an' have your measure taken for a drink. I've bought
out the place, an' am givin' it away. Me an' Carnegie's tryin' to die
poor."
Tom mounted to the hall with a secret satisfaction in the protection of
the broad-chested bluecoats that now held the stairway. A fusillade of
remarks from the men marking their ballots greeted his entrance, but he
passed up to the platform without making answers.
Pete's mouth fell agape at sight of him. "Hello! You look like you been
ticklin' a grizzly under the chin!"
Tom noted the relishing grins of the Foley tellers. "The trouble
downstairs is all over. I'll tell you all about it after awhile," he
said shortly; and sat down just behind Pete to watch the voting.
Up to this time the balloting had been light. But now the hall began to
fill, and the voting proceeded rapidly--and orderly, too, thanks to the
policemen on stairway and in street. Tom, his clothes "lookin' like he
tried to take 'em off without unbuttonin'," as a Foley teller whispered,
his battered hat down over his eyes, sat tilted against the wall
scanning every man that filed past the box. As man after man had his
membership card stamped "voted," and dropped in his ballot, Tom's
excitement rose, for he recognized the majority of the men that marched
by as of his following.
At nine o'clock Pete leaned far back in his chair. "Lookin' great, ain't
it?" he whispered.
"If it only keeps up like this." That it might not was Tom's great fear
now.
"Oh, it will, don't you worry."
The line of voters that marched by, and by, bore out Pete's prediction,
as Tom's counting eyes saw. He had the wild exultation and throbbing
weakness of the man who is on the verge of success. But the possibility
of failure, the cause of his weakness, became less and less as time
ticked on and the votes dropped into the ballot box. His enthusiasm
grew. Dozens of plans flashed through his head. But his eyes never left
that string of men who were deciding his fate and that of the union.
At half past ten Tom was certain of his election. Pete leaned back and
gripped his hand. "It's a cinch, Tom. It's a shame to take the money,"
he whispered.
Tom acquiesced in Pete's conviction with a jerk of his head, and watched
the passing line, now grown thin and slow, drop in their ballots, his
certainty growing doubly sure.
Fifteen minutes later Foley entered the hall, whispered a moment with
Hogan at the door, a moment with Connelly, and then went out again. Tom
thought he saw anxiety showing through Foley's ease of manner, and to
him it was an advance taste of triumph.
Tom wished eleven o'clock had come and the door was locked. The minutes
passed with such exhausting slowness. A straggling voter dropped in his
ballot--and another straggler--and another. Tom looked at his watch. Two
minutes had passed since Foley's visit. Another straggling voter. And
then four men appeared in a body at the hall door, all apparently the
worse for Foley's hospitality. Tom saw the foremost present his card.
Hogan glanced at it, and handed it back. "You can't vote that card; it's
expired," Tom heard him say.
"What's that?" demanded the man, threateningly.
"The card's expired, I said! You can't vote it! Get out!"
"I can't vote it, hey!" There was an oath, a blow--a surprisingly light
blow to produce such an effect, so it seemed to Tom--and Hogan staggered
back and went to the floor. There was a scuffle; the tables on which lay
the ballots toppled over, and the ballots went fluttering. By this time
Tom reached the door, policemen had rushed in and settled the scuffle,
and the four men were being led from the room.
Hogan was unhurt, but Jackson was so dazed from a blow that Tom had to
put another man in his place.
The minutes moved toward eleven with slow, ticking steps. Two stragglers
... at long intervals. At a few minutes before eleven the exhausting
monotony was enlivened by the entrance of eight men, singing
boisterously and jostling each other in alcoholic jollity. They marked
their ballots and staggered in a group to the ballot-box. Two tried to
deposit their ballots at once.
"Leave me alone, will youse!" cried one, with an oath, and struck at the
other.
The ballot-box slipped across to the edge of the table. Connelly, who
sat just behind the box, made no move for its safety. "Hey, stop that!"
cried Pete and sprang across to seize it. But he was too late. The one
blow struck, the eight were all instantly delivering blows, and pushing
and swearing. The box was knocked forward upon the floor, and the eight
sprawled pell-mell upon it.
Tom and the tellers sprang from behind the tables upon the scuffling
heap, and several policemen rushed in from the hallway. The men, once
dragged apart, subsided and gave no trouble. They were allowed to drop
their ballots in the box, now back in its place on the table, and were
then led out in quietness by the officers.
Pete turned about, struck with a sudden fear. "I wonder if that was a
trick?" he whispered.
Tom's face was pale. The same fear had come to him. "I wonder!"
In another five minutes the door was locked and the tellers were
counting the ballots. Among the first hundred there were perhaps a score
that bore no mark except a cross before Foley's name. Pete looked again
at Tom. With both fear had been replaced by certainty.
"The box's been stuffed!" Pete whispered.
Tom nodded.
His only hope now was that not enough false ballots had been got into
the box to carry the election. But as the count proceeded, this hope
left him. And the end was equal to his worst fears. The count stood: for
walking delegate, Foley 976, Keating 763; for president, Keating 763,
Foley's man 595; all the other Foley candidates won by a slight margin.
The apparent inconsistencies of this count Tom readily understood even
in the first wild minutes. Foley's running ahead of his ticket was to be
explained on the ground that the brief time permitted of a cross being
put before his name alone on the false ballots; his own election to the
unimportant presidency, and the failure of his other candidates, was
evidently caused by several of his followers splitting their tickets and
voting for the minor Foley candidates.
As the count had proceeded Tom had exploded more than once, and Pete had
made lurid use of his gift. When Connelly read off the final results Tom
exploded again.
"It's an infernal steal!" he shouted.
"Even if it is, what can we do?" returned Connelly.
Words ran high. But Tom quickly saw the uselessness of protests and
accusations at this time. His great desire now was to take his heat and
disappointment out into the street; and so he gave evasive answers to
Pete and Barry, who wanted to talk it over, and made his way out of the
hall alone.
Cheers and laughter were ascending from the bar-room. As he was half-way
down the stairs the door of the saloon opened, and Foley came out and
started up, followed by a number of men. Among them Tom saw several of
the drunken group that had upset the ballot-box; and he also saw that
they probably had not been more sober in years.
"Why, hello, Tom!" Foley cried out on sight of him. "D'youse hear the
election returns?"
Tom looked hard at Foley's face with its leering geniality, and he was
almost overmastered by a desire to hurl himself upon Foley and
annihilate him. "You infernal thief!" he burst out.
Foley sidled toward him across the broad step. "I'll pass that by. I can
afford to, for youse're about wiped out. I guess youse've had enough."
"Enough?" cried Tom. "I've just begun!"
With that he brushed by Foley and passed through the door out into the
street.