University of Virginia Library

9. QUITTERS AND STAYERS.

Ned has told his troubles to his old friend and confessed that he is considerably torn up by the discovery that there are several traitors and a bunch of weak-kneed camp followers in his ranks. This stirs the old veteran to vent his feelings on the subject of the various stripes of politicians to be found in every camp. He gives his opinion of their relative importance and illustrates his meaning by an anecdote of politics "up in the Hill Country beyond Judea."

Brokenstraw Ranch, —, 19—.

Dear Ned: —

I'm glad that my passing remarks on the general cussedness of grafters and stingers gave you the consolation they were intended to carry. Judging from the letter before me, you seem to be learning a good deal in a short space of time about the different species into which the general family of Politician is sub-divided; and it strikes me that the particular breeds now claiming your attention are the Quitters and the Stayers.

The atmosphere of politics doesn't seem especially suited to the raising of spiritual orchids; but there isn't another field of human effort in which the rougher virtues shine to better advantage or the meanness of the human mind can crop up in a more contemptible way. The thing best loved in a politician is that which makes a burdock the best hated weed on earth—the quality of sticking through thick and thin. A good old fashioned dock burr is the sort of a floral emblem for me when going into the ups and downs of politics; no matter whether your campaign fund is 50 cents or $50,000, the burrs and the real stayers will stick so tight you can't separate them from you without individually pulling them into pieces. The Stayers may want you to go some other road than the one you're set on traveling, but they'll stick with you to the end and not pester you with a lot of nagging questions and arguments. They aren't forever reminding you that they expect you some time to square accounts with them on a Santa Claus basis; and they don't rattle off from you like chestnuts after a hard frost, when the first wind of political adversity strikes you.

I've sat up a good many nights and burned a heap of strong tobacco trying to figure out just where a Stayer leaves off and a Quitter begins, and I've about come to the conclusion that the line of separation shifts itself about as often as the bed of the Missouri river. However, I've sized it up about this way: When your political bedfellow personally and at first hand proves to you that he's more kinds of a hog, liar, and general all-around traitor than his worst enemies set him out to be, you're warranted in cutting him out of the bunch on giving due notice of your intentions—and the boys can't rightly call you a quitter for doing it.

This question of the ethics of quitting and staying was never better illustrated to my mind than in a township election when I was a boy back in York state. Up in the region called the "hill country beyond Judea" Luman Dodd, a young buck who had more relatives in the valley of Gahunda than a rabbit, was the leader of the choir in the little Disciple church, and figured that, being the best singer and the handsomest and most numerously connected young man in the whole hill country, he stood a good chance, in time, to go to the legislature if he could only get the right sort of a start. But the start was what bothered him, for it had to be a regular run-and-jump in order to land him in Albany among the lawmakers.

Over in the valley of Gahunda, in the same township, was Watt Ely, a solid old Yankee who had run the Republican politics of the settlement for several years. Young Lume had had sense to make up strong to Watt and "ride the town" whenever there was a close fight on, and his tenor voice was a star attraction at every Republican rally. Old Watt took a shine to the boy and nursed Lume's political ambitions, telling him his day would come sometime. And it did come at a certain town caucus, when Watt got the old boys together and put Lume on the head of the ticket for supervisor. There was a streak of tenor melody from the townhouse to Lume's home as the young candidate left the caucus to carry the news to his wife.

But after the first burst of song the leader of the choir got busy meditating on how he was to make the big start that would give him the impetus for a leap into the legislature. Nothing commonplace, like a good record, would answer the purpose, to his notion. He must do something to startle the natives and show them that they needed a tenor voice in the councils of the state at Albany.

He went out into the woodshed until the plan of campaign gradually took shape—for Lume's mind was about as nimble as a cove oyster's. But when he had once bedded himself down in a new set of ideas he was there to stay. At the end of a three hours' communion with himself, Lume saw the way from the townhouse to the capital; he would roll up a majority for himself that would make the other figures on his ticket look sick and prove that he was the most popular man that had ever showed his head above the waters of politics in the "country beyond Judea."

And the way he planned to accomplish this feat proved to himself that he was cut out from the beginning of creation for a statesman. O, but it was a cunning trick! He was sure that nobody else had thought of such a smart turn. Moses Siler, who was named for justice of the peace, had taken a collection at the close of the caucus from all the candidates and had gone over to Slippery Elm to get the Republican tickets printed, so they could be distributed among the voters during Sunday and Monday. But Lume had decided to do a little ticket business on his own hook, so he sent his younger brother over to the Burg, the other side of the hills, and had a batch of Democratic tickets printed on the same kind of paper as the Republican ballots, only the name of Luman Dodd was substituted in the place of the Democratic candidate's name. These he'd use where they'd do the most good.

On Sunday Lume was in his place at the head of the choir, behind the organ, and he celebrated the occasion by singing a solo that made some of the sisters wipe their eyes. You couldn't have thrown a contribution box in any direction in that audience without hitting an aunt, uncle, or cousin of Luman Dodd's—and they were all proud of the new distinction that had come to the family in the shape of Lume's nomination. Out in the horsesheds, after the services, Lume held a reunion of the male members of the Dodd line, and it was agreed that every one of them suspected of having the slightest influence in the community should get out and "ride" from Monday's sunup until the close of the polls on Tuesday. Lume told them, of course, he'd be elected—no question about that—but he wanted to roll up the biggest majority ever carried by a candidate in Bethlehem township.

On Monday he started out to ride the township himself. All was smooth sailing until he struck the valley of Gahunda and drove in at Mose Siler's bars to discuss the outlook and plan for some special hustling on Tuesday. In about a second after Mose planted his foot on the hub of the buggy he took from his wallet one of the special Democratic tickets that Lume had hired a tin peddler to distribute among the wives of the hill country Democrats along with some bright new dippers and nutmeg graters.

"Lume," asked Mose, "do you know anything about this? Ever see one of these before or have anything to do with the printing or peddling of these ballots?"

Not being a quick thinker and, knowing that he'd got to speak up right quick or stand convicted of party treachery in the eyes of the candidate for justice of the peace, Lume swallowed hard and then answered:

"Never; some one is trying to throw dirt into my grist. Do you think, Mose Siler, that a young man who has sung tenor in the choir of the Disciple church as long as I have and has got the chances that are in front of me would do this kind of a thing?"

"I've got my i-dees on that subject," said Siler, "but all I'm going to say right now is that some one's done it and that that feller's a scurvy hound, and unless I find some one who won't deny it I'm going to lay it to your door—and my friends in Gahunda valley will strip your hide off tomorrow at the polls."

That was all,—and Lume continued his ride, the most disconsolate man in the whole hill country beyond Judea. But, as Siler's threat kept filtering through his mind, he caught at one phrase in it that gave him a ray of hope: "Unless I find some one who won't deny it." It was an hour before his mental mill had ground this grist and brought him to a decision. He turned his horse around and started for Watt Ely's, clear at the lower end of the long valley. By the time he was pounding on Watt's door with one hand and keeping off the watchdogs with a whip in his other hand, it was 4 o'clock in the morning. Old Watt wasn't dressed for company, but Lume pushed inside without waiting for an invitation. Then he unburdened his soul in double quick time and made a clean breast of the whole business. Before Watt could open up Lume began to whine for quarter.

"I've stood by you and rode this town night and day for you, Mr. Ely," he said, "and a good many times I've run the risk of ruining my voice in order to furnish your rallies with campaign music. You're the chairman of our county committee and the boys will stand by anything you say. All Siler wants is to find some one who won't deny fixing up that Democratic ticket. You're so strong in the county that a little thing like this won't hurt you a bit—but, Lord, a' mighty! it'll ruin me for all time."

"Look here!" cut in Watt. "You've done as dirty a trick as ever was put up by a low down politician. But you have rode for me when the fight was close. Besides, I want to show my gratitude to the Almighty for not making me responsible for the spoiling of your voice. So you can just go ahead with the lie you've started out with and I'll not deny fixing the ticket to Mose or anybody else—not until election's over. Does that satisfy you?"

Lume was so overjoyed at this that he didn't quite catch the full force of the qualifying clause and he rode back home feeling that there was still hope. His first move was to send word, in a roundabout way, to Mose that he better take his question to Watt Ely. He did, and the county chairman's answer was:

"Well, what of it? I don't deny it. Lume says it's so, an' he sings in the Disciple choir, an' is a mighty respectable member of the community."

That gave Lume a new lease of life. He caught at the straw that Watt had thrown out, and in an hour was telling his excited uncles and cousins that the county chairman had "done him dirt"—probably for the reason that he wanted to kill him off once for all. The whole township was torn up by the fight, and the result was the heaviest vote that was ever polled.

Meantime, Lume, who was considerably green at lying, began to hear from his conscience and grow white around the gills. And when the votes were counted and the footing of the tally sheet was announced he had a mighty sickly looking smile of triumph on his face for a man who had run ahead of his ticket.

After the election clerks had put up their papers old Watt mounted a cracker box in the general store. There was a light in his eye that meant business, and the boys knew it.

"Before I begin to talk I want any man here who thinks I'm a quitter or who has ever known me to break my word in any political deal to speak right out in meeting."

Not a man spoke, and he took a swig from the cider pitcher before going ahead. While he was clearing his throat Lume slipped out of the crowd, saying he'd forgot to shut the henhouse door. But the thing he'd forgotten was the qualifying clause in old Watt's promise.

"I jest want to remark," continued Watt, "that having a whole nation of good, honest kinfolks sometimes won't save a man from doing things that would shame a polecat, and that a tenor voice hain't any particular guaranty of truthful lips."

Then he laid open the entire circumstances regarding the loaded Democratic ticket. That night the news traveled the length and breadth of Gahunda valley and all over the hill country beyond Judea.

The next afternoon every relative of Lume's in the whole region was attending another family reunion at the horsesheds. Lume bawled and begged, but the Dodds were made of hardy stock and didn't propose to have their good name dragged in the mire of Gahunda without letting the natives know that he wasn't upheld by his kinfolks. When they got through with him he had been officially thrown out of the church, the choir and the Sunday school. They took his resignation from the board of supervisors and packed him off to Ohio, bag and baggage.

The last I heard of him he was doing a turn in a minstrel show that was making one night stands through Missouri and Arkansas—which is some different from throwing a tenor voice at the speaker of the House in Albany.

Whenever any one mentions the subject of Quitters and Stayers somehow I can't help thinking that old Watt Ely got about as near the right dividing line as most of us can. There's such a thing as being an over-stayer—and it's almost as bad a breed as the easy quitter. But one thing is sure, the politician who don't make his bare word better than a first mortgage on an Illinois farm don't know the first principles of good politics.

He can smash the moral law into kindling wood in a lot of particulars, but if he keeps this one commandment sound he will have more followers than a wagonload of fodder in a pasture of hungry steers. And the funny part of it is that a good share of the modern white ribbon "practical reformers" who have kept the whole moral code from their youth up seem to forget this one tenet the minute they break into politics, while the boss who would shake down a railroad without winking makes this the one plank in his confession of faith.

Now, Ned, if you don't want me to run on at such a rate you mustn't write me the things that stir up all my old political dander. Just keep pruning off the Quitters and grafting on the Stayers and you'll yet land the big job you're after.

The cattle are doing fine and the ranch is the best place I've struck yet for solid comfort. It beats the executive mansion and a seat in the Senate all hollow—for I've tried 'em both. Give my regards to your wife.

Yours as ever,

William Bradley.