University of Virginia Library

6. HOW THE DEAR PEOPLE FORGET.

Ned has written his old friend and counsellor that the piece of legislation he has just put through will make him "eternally solid" with his constituents and that hereafter he has only to say "thumbs-up" and the whole party strength of the entire district will follow the word. William Bradley replies with the story of the boss of Pinhole politics who banked on the gratitude of the public and later saw a great light.

Brokenstraw Ranch, —, 19—.

Dear Ned: —

You seem to feel that the bill you have put through has given you a mechanic's lien for life on the franchises of your constituents. Perhaps it has. But let me tell you this: A boy who has played hookey and wound up with a secret raid on the jam closet, and is then called into the woodshed to interview father, is a novice in the gentle and convenient art of forgetting compared with the average political constituency. Any ordinary bunch of voters can forget to remember more things than a village money lender can remember to forget in making up a schedule of his personal property for the tax assessor. The affections of a frisky girl in her first year of boarding school life are sermons in constancy alongside of the fluctuations of popular esteem which are recorded at the ballot box.

Of course, the fellows who are pushing for the appropriation which you landed have told you that the passage of your bill would make you eternally solid with the horny handed voters in your district; that so long as grass continues to grow and water to run in the old Eighth you could just say "thumbs up" and the votes would be yours. Then they pounded you on the back, gave you a stag dinner, and presented you with a gold watch engraved with sentiments from your "grateful constituents." I've had several of these, and my experience is that they'll run longer without cleaning than most constituencies will without a change of heart.

This cow country out here hasn't any more than its share of quitters, but a little incident just occurred over at Pinhole that sheds light on the subject of the amount of faith a man is warranted in placing on the political constancy of a constituency to which he has given the one thing that it desired above all others. Now, Pinhole isn't strong on the traditional means of grace; it's short on churches; the W. C. T. U. and Y. M. C. A. and other alphabetical agencies of civilization haven't been able to cut a wide swath there. But for all that, there is a good deal doing in Pinhole right along and the people have been accustomed to point with pride to the fact that its bars, faro banks, and other local institutions are the best in the state and never turn away the enterprising patron at any hour of day or night.

At the last session of the legislature, however, there was a tidal wave of moral sentiment that made the boys hold their ears to the rails and listen. A good many of them concluded that the "water wagon" was coming in earnest and they couldn't see much difference between a blue ribbon and a ballot. The W. C. T. U. forces certainly did make a powerful showing, and for a while it looked as if some mighty restrictive legislation would go through. That was the time when "Big Mike," the member from Pinhole, took off his coat and began to saw wood. He knew that his town would look like a Sunday school after that kind of legislation had begun to get in its saving work. A big delegation of business men came on from Pinhole to make a showing. They were sure scared and begged Mike to turn back the enemy at any cost. He buckled right down to business, sacrificed everything else, and traded right and left for anything that would cut into the votes of the reform party. And he was a shrewd trader, too!

If the missionaries who have gone out to spread the gospel had worked half as hard as "Big Mike" there wouldn't be an unconverted heathen on the earth. If he had sworn not to eat or sleep until he had killed that bill he couldn't have hustled harder. Day and night he was on the rampage, cutting out a member from the reform bunch at every possible opportunity and putting the Pinhole brand on him.

When the final roundup came he had picked up enough strays, by hard riding, to defeat the cold water measure. Judging by the noise that Pinhole delegation made over him, you would have expected to see "Big Mike" sent to congress. They loosened the underpinning of the capitol building and painted the town until it looked like a horse show poster. And the whole thing was done over again when Mike made his triumphal return to his own town. All the brass bands in the county were there and the blowout that was had in his honor went down in history.

A few months later a young stranger with a baritone speaking voice, a smile that made the dogs wag their tails, and a string of good stories, struck the town and opened a law office. When the municipal election came around the opposition ticket nominated him for mayor. Then the "business element" waited on "Big Mike" and asked him to run in order to "save the day." They assured him that he was the one man who could snuff out the young invader without batting an eye.

Of course, being mayor of Pinhole looked like small potatoes to a man who had held the center of the stage through a whole legislative session and who had his eye on a seat in the State Senate. But the boys begged him to make the sacrifice and urged that the mere use of his name would put the other man out of the running. Finally he yielded. The music which had celebrated his triumphal return was still sounding in his ears and he looked upon the whole municipal campaign as a matter of form. In fact, he didn't consider it necessary even to remind the people that he had given them the one thing they wanted. They could never forget that! So he just kept on handing out hardware to his customers while the young lawyer worked his smile and his stories from one end of the street to the other.

Somehow, before anybody particularly realized it, there was a sort of general inquiry as to whether "Big Mike" ever would be able to satisfy his appetite for office. Even one or two of the men who had been in the Pinhole delegation that went up to the capital during the session for the purpose of holding up "Big Mike's" hands and giving him moral support were heard to insinuate that the political leader of the business element so hated to see an office get past him that he'd be running for justice of the peace or constable next, rather than have some other fellow fill the place.

Then the women and the dudes of Pinhole society began to whisper that it would be real nice to have a mayor who didn't spit on his shirt front and who used at least three handkerchiefs in a week.

Well, before the polls opened you could walk from one end of the street to the other without hearing a solitary word on the subject of how "Big Mike" had stampeded a whole legislature and saved Pinhole from being crushed under the wheels of the water wagon bill. But every time you listened in at a little political talk you were dead sure to hear how many spots were once counted on "Big Mike's" shirt bosom and how tiresome a thing it is to see a man make a political glutton of himself.

"Big Mike" didn't hear much of this talk, and he simply snorted with complaisant contempt at the stray fragments of it that did reach his ears. He allowed that a man could wear a shirt front of solid plug fringed with one-cut if he could only give his constituents their heart's desire and give it to 'em quick—when they called for it.

The people, he said, knew all about him, and he knew the people of Pinhole so well that he didn't have to get out and run a campaign with a dude on a shirt front issue. But a bear on a floor sanded with carpet tacks would be a calm and peaceful object compared with "Big Mike" when the ballots were counted that night and the election of the smooth young lawyer announced.

Mike plowed up both sides of the street in his wrath, sold out his business, and moved into another frontier town in an adjoining district, which had been as much benefited by his work in the legislature as had Pinhole. Then he started in for a long campaign. He is working at it now, day and night, and you may depend upon it that he will be back again in the legislature with a long knife out for any legislation that the Pinhole district may want. He says that he is now a reformer—and that the first thing he proposes to reform is the memory of his dear friends, the people of Pinhole.

All this, I admit, is discouraging to a man who has put up really a great fight for a good measure that ought to entitle him to an eternal mortgage on the support of his district for anything he may choose to ask. However, there may be a sneaking streak of satisfaction to some fellows in the fact that a constituency is about as quick to forget his sins and blunders as his triumphs of statesmanship in their behalf.

Perhaps you have forgotten the episode of "Gumshoe Smith," in the session when you were laid off. Let me jog your memory. Gumshoe represented one of the river districts. Although he had a whole lot of farmers in his bailiwick, he was out for any substantial assets he could fasten on to without making too much noise about it. And, what's more, he didn't hold himself at a cheap price, either. He always stuck for something worth while, and if he did not get it he was a bad man to deal with. He had the courage of his immoral convictions and showed a daredevil nerve when any of the corporate interests tried to throw him.

One of the biggest franchise bills that came up during the session was engineered by a transplanted New England Yankee who hated to see a cent slip through his own fingers. This made Gumshoe mad, and he fixed a price on his support that threw the Yankee into the cramps. They dickered and haggled up to the last minute before the bill was to come up for third reading; but Gumshoe wouldn't budge an inch or discount his price a dollar.

At the last ragged minute before roll call that Yankee, who was hid away in one of the committee rooms, turned to a young fellow from his own town, whom he had put on the pay roll, and handed him a long envelope containing $5,000 with the remark: "Just hustle into the House and quietly hand this to Mr. Smith. It contains some papers he wants to use right away."

The young fellow was as green as a June pasture, so far as his knowledge of inside legislation was concerned, and besides that he didn't have any more than his share of brains, anyway. He slipped into the House and asked the doorkeeper, "Where is Mr. Smith?"

"Right down the aisle there," answered the doorkeeper, pointing. "Standing with his hand on his desk."

The young fellow slipped quietly down the aisle and laid the envelope on the desk indicated. Before the roll call actually began Gumshoe slipped out of the door and began to look anxiously about. In a moment he found what he was looking for, and he and the Yankee held about two minutes of mighty animated conversation. Then the young man who had been sent with the envelope came up. The Yankee grabbed him by the arm and asked in an undertone: "You gave those papers to Smith, didn't you ?"

"Yes," answered the young man in a scared voice.

Then Gumshoe turned on the little fellow and said:

"You're a liar, you never gave it to me. You've salted it down in your own pocket, you little thief."

"You?" was the astonished response. "Of course I didn't give it to you. I gave it to Mr. Smith, that grizzle-headed little old man with the whiskers, on the right hand of the center aisle, third seat down."

In one second Gumshoe made a rush for the meek little old farmer from the southern end of the state, who hadn't said a word during the whole session excepting to answer on roll call. About half of the members hadn't discovered that his name was Smith—and those who had distinguished between him from the other Smith by giving him his right surname, while they always spoke of the main Smith as Gumshoe. This was how the doorkeeper happened to send the innocent young man to Farmer Smith instead of Gumshoe from the river district.

With a fierce grip on the old farmer's shoulder Gumshoe blurted out:

"Here, you old pious sneak thief, just fork over that stuff right quick or I'll smash every bone in your body."

With a shaking hand the scared farmer made a dive into his inside pocket, pulled out the long envelope, and handed it over. When Gumshoe saw that it had been opened he gave a nasty laugh and said:

"If you ever peep on this I'll teach you that there's such a thing as honor among thieves."

On the roll call Gumshoe voted for the bill, and voted hard. As several of the members sitting near had heard snatches of the conversation an inkling of the story leaked out and got into the newspapers. Of course, Farmer Smith put up the defense that he wasn't going to keep the money.

Some believed this and some didn't. Anyhow, both of the men were roasted to a crisp in the newspapers and any one would naturally have concluded that neither of the Smiths would ever dare to run for pathmaster. But the records show that they were both back again in the House inside of four years and Gumshoe, as you probably remember, was later sent to the Senate.

And so, Ned, you will see why I don't put quite as much confidence in the memory or the constancy of the ordinary constituency as your letter leads me to think you do. The average American king can forget benefactions and forget crimes about as nimbly as any other kind of a king. My advice is: Don't scrimp your next campaign fund because you have turned a good trick for your people; get hold of some new issue and convince them that it's their only salvation and just as necessary as the thing you have already landed.

I'm mighty sorry that I can't be on hand for the wedding; but I want to say that I'd rather see you married to Kate than witness your entrance into the United States Senate. You may think the latter is a long way off—and so it may be—but I like the way you've trotted your trial heats and I'm expecting more of you than some fellows who can't see beyond the lines of a printed pedigree.

Yours as ever,

William Bradley.