University of Virginia Library

8. GRAFTERS AND STINGERS.

Commenting on Ned's surprise that a seasoned politician has "sold himself for thirty cents," William Bradley gives his notions of grafters and indulges in a story and a few epigrams to drive home the point, taking his text from his boyhood experiences in breaking up "bumble bees' nests."

Brokenstraw Ranch, —, 19—.

Dear Ned: —

When you size up a bunch of aldermen or a new legislature, just remember the simple little fact of natural history that a "bumble" bee is always biggest right after it's hatched. The average alderman or legislator—especially if he's inclined to be "on the make"—is about seven times larger and more important in his first term than he will ever be again.

You seem to be surprised that our old friend Kite sold himself for about 30 cents after having been in politics for as many years, and that he hates and fights the decent men who wouldn't do the same trick. If the corporation had attempted to land him at that price in his first term he would have been so mad that likely he'd made a bluff at exposing the attempt to tamper with his "honor"; but the passage of time is likely to make a little shrinkage in most things, including the importance of an alderman or a legislator. There's nothing I know of that loses so much of size in the seasoning process as a politician—excepting a "bumble" bee and a basswood log.

Your story about Kite Hendee puts me in mind of a little chapter in the gentle art of grafting that bears right on this "bumble" bee point and is worth remembering. Up in the city a plumber was elected to the board of aldermen. He didn't calculate to put in his time in the council just to cure himself of hay fever, and there wasn't a fresh baked city father in the bunch that felt his oats like Barney Brennan. The flowers on his desk that first night looked like a composite of all the Dutch posey beds in Little Germany, and one of the newspaper boys remarked that the corporations would have to pay for that floral display at Easter prices.

Being a plumber, Barney naturally was used to pretty stiff prices anyway, and had acquired the habit of charging up time from the minute he began to look for his tools till he returned and had sharpened his pipe cutters ready for the next job.

Now, the little Hoosier who was looking after the interests of one of the street railroad companies had broken up enough "bumbles'" nests in his boyhood to know something about the law of shrinkages, and, as he had been in the house building business for several years, was fairly familiar with the general habits of plumbers.

There was a little trick that the Hoosier wanted to put through the council, but there wasn't enough involved to make it really a first class object from an aldermanic standpoint. Consequently, as the council contained a lot of new members who were mightily impressed with their own importance, the scout for the street railway company had to figure close and make up in cunning what he lacked in available coin with which to grease the job.

All the hold-overs that could be done business with were lined up quick, and at the regular discount-in-large-quantities rate. But he was considerable short of the required number of votes, and had to raise his prices in several instances to get the new men that could be seen at all. He sent one of the old members to sound Barney, the plumber, but that dignitary sniffed at the offer of $500, and swore by the great Gas Pipe Cinch that he wouldn't consider anything less than $1,000.

According to the little Hoosier's score card, the game was up with him unless he could get Barney into line—but, of course, Barney didn't know that his vote was the key to the whole situation. Some of the Hoosier's advisers got anxious about the situation and kept asking if he wasn't going to come to Barney's terms "just for a starter."

"Nope," said the Hoosier, "can't afford that. It establishes a bad precedent—and, besides, he'll come around all right when the time comes."

"Don't you think it," said the fellows. "He's bigger in his own mind right now than the Mayor himself. You'd better settle with him this once, and after a while he'll get some sense and come down to hardpan prices like the rest of us."

But the Hoosier only shook his head, grinned and said that Barney would drop into line without any trouble. The night the resolution came up for final vote there hadn't been a change of a figure on the little Hoosier's score card. He confided this to the friend who sat right behind Barney, and, handing him a long manila envelope, he said:

"If that plumber pirate gets up to make a spiel against our resolution, just keep one eye on me; the minute I take off my eyeglasses and start to rub them with my handkerchief, you reach around in front of Barney and put this envelope on his desk. I guess he'll take a twist on his tiller and round his bow into the wind when he sees what's put up to him. I'll be up by the clerk's desk with the newspaper boys."

Things were run quite wide open in those days in the council and bolder hands had been played than the showdown the Hoosier outlined. Well, sure enough, Barney arose in his seat to speak on the resolution. Like most new members he hung on to his desk with a death grip and seemed afraid the whole floor would slide out from under him if he should let go for a second. But he had set himself to sail the eagle a little and at the same time to let the fellows who were doing things understand that they had a heavyweight to deal with when they didn't come to his terms. They couldn't trifle with his affections without getting a blow with a lead pipe that would make itself felt!

After his throat was cleared and the buck fever had got out of his voice, he began to lay the foundations for a forty minute indictment against the street car company calculated to put that "bloated incubus" out of business for all time. He had sunk the piles and put in the underground stonework of his speech when the little Hoosier calmly took off his glasses and began to rub them with his handkerchief.

Instantly the alderman behind Barney caught the signal, reached forward and laid the long envelope on the orator's desk. The speaker continued for a few minutes and then paused for a drink of water. As he did so he stole a glance at the envelope and saw a figure "1," followed by three ciphers written in pencil on the corner of the envelope. He put the drinking glass down over the figures and then proceeded in the same strain. The face of the Hoosier's friend fell like a batch of sour dough. And it didn't change until the speaker paused and took a new grip with the words:

"An' now, gentlemen, this is one side of the situation. There are always two sides to every case, and a spirit of judicial fairness compels me to present the other side. Between two evils we must choose the least. While the resolution would benefit a graspin' corporation, its defeat would deprive the people of rights and privileges that are of inestimable value."

Then he went ahead and put out as plausible a line of argument as the little Hoosier himself could have furnished. And he wound up with the declaration:

"I have not hesitated to expose the motives that have influenced this monopoly to ask for the resolution before us; but, gentlemen, I am compelled to vote for its passage because it is the best thing for the people. Experience should teach us that when this hungry corporation gives us three-quarters of a loaf we should grab it before it is too late."

When Barney sat down some one nudged the little Hoosier and whispered: "Must have met his price, eh? Or, mebbe, he raised on you the last minute. But it hain't fair to us fellows who stand by you right along to get the small change while the fancy sums go to these goslins that are fresh from the nest."

"Just you go out with Barney," says the Hoosier, "and watch him when he opens up his envelope over in Billy Ryan's place. Take him into a private stall—you two alone—and give him champagne until his tongue is loosened. I'll stand the bill."

"A wink's as good as a nod to a blind horse," said the member as he started for Barney's seat and cinched the invitation. After adjournment the two went into retirement together in one of Billy Ryan's stalls and opened a few bottles of extra dry and ate a beefsteak on the side. Every once in a while Barney's fingers would stray into his inside coat pocket as if to make sure something was there. Finally, the friend said:

"Old man, you're one of the Ancient and Honorable Gray Wolves now. If you don't know that they're a mighty square set and always pull together you'll find it out soon. There's no squealing and no secrets in the pack. Better pull out that envelope and see what you draw. I never saw anything so slick as the way you brought 'em to time."

Barney stiffened up, said something about being able to play the game if he hadn't been long in it, and drew out the envelope. "I guess none of the boys did any better 'n that," he added, pointing to the figures. "One thousand ain't so bad for the first meeting."

"One thousand—cents!" exclaimed his companion. "I guess you'd better have your eyes tested for glasses, old man. A decimal point, if it is mighty small, cuts a big figure in this business, I can tell you, where we've got to take things on their face and count the goods afterwards."

"Cents!" yelled Barney, ripping open the envelope and dropping a bright, new $10 bill into his plate. Barney always ordered his steak extra rare but they say that when he had got done using the Irish language that night his steak was burned to a crisp and crinkled up around the edges like a German pancake. He made such an uproar that the other aldermen who had dropped in after the session to take a little nourishment and sit up and notice things, came rushing into the stall.

Of course, the whole story was out in a minute—just as the Hoosier had intended it to be, only without the necessity of giving it away himself.

But you may be sure the Hoosier spread the gospel of the $10 bill in every precinct club in Barney's ward until the alderman couldn't go up an alley without being grinned at by the wise ones. Then the Hoosier sent a trim little bruiser who was handy with his fists down into the ward to finish the job of making a monkey of the Hon. Barney. The lightweight happened into a place where the alderman was attempting to recover lost ground by flooding the ward with beer. After an introduction the slugger gayly started in to joke Barney about the $10 ordinance.

Instantly the alderman, who was a big fellow, thought he saw a way to make good with his people and he struck right out from the shoulder. But the little athlete dodged, and when he finished up with Barney that city father looked like a slice of fresh liver.

That winter Barney scattered Christmas turkeys among "his people" as lavishly as if they were sparrows. But the whole ward continued to grin whenever his name was mentioned, and it was carried against him at the next primaries by a young chap who had once been a theological student and was suspected of being a half-baked prohibitionist.

But, to go back to the "bumble" bee proposition: I've broken up enough nests in the old south meadow, when I was a boy, to prevent me from seeing out of both eyes for a week; but the lessons I learned while nursing my stings have stood me in good stead in many a campaign. One of the things that has stuck to me, from those sore reflections, is the observation that the coward who dodges behind the fellow that does the fighting is the one that wants most of the honey and howls loudest when he happens to get stung.

If that isn't the way in the world of politics, then I never led a certain fight back in the old state that is still remembered by the seasoned warhorses of the party! Find a fellow whose mouth waters to catch the drippings from a piece of political honeycomb, and who wants the other boys to be contented with "bee bread," and you've got a man that'll hide behind your back when you're under fire. Our friend Kite was of just that sort.

Then, again, the "bumblers" taught me that when the chief end of existence is to plant a stinger where it'll do the most good there may be a whole lot of savage satisfaction in the process—but it's sure death to the one that lands the stinger! The whole highway of politics is scattered with the carcasses of bright politicians who acquired a passion for stinging; they finally got in their work but every boy that has broken up a "bumbler's" nest knows that the bee that lands a stinger gives up his life along with it.

So, Ned, don't mind the Grafters or the Stingers. You'll outlive them all.

Yours as ever,

William Bradley.