University of Virginia Library

17. LOVE AT FIRST SIGHT.

Wherein William Bradley demonstrates to Ned that, while love at first sight is a mighty taking proposition in the beginning of story book or in matrimonial affairs of other folks, it has led many a trusting politician to pack his own caucus with secret enemies without leaving standing room for his real friends.

Brokenstraw Ranch, —, 19—.

Dear Ned: —

Before you have been in Washington a fortnight you write me that you have formed friendships which you feel will last for the rest of your natural life.

That's just like you, Ned—as impulsive as a setter pup and ready to play tag with the very boot that's waiting for the first good chance to kick you off the back steps. It's too bad to apply the freezing treatment to a faith as fine and ready as yours, but if you continue to hand out the coin of your confidence and the currency of your friendship without collateral or security in kind at the rate you have started in on, one short term at Washington will be enough to put your political future into the hands of a receiver.

Love-at-first-sight is a mighty taking proposition in the start of a story or in the matrimonial affairs of other folks, but it has led many a politician to pack his own caucus with a choice assortment of secret enemies, without leaving standing room for his real friends who would stay with him through flood and fire. Impetuosity is all right in a campaign speech in which you are pounding the open enemy, but it is a whole lot safer to put part of it in escrow when it comes to hooking up with a lot of seasoned old stagers who have played politics at the national capital ever since you became sufficiently civilized to wear a nightshirt.

On general principles, the picking of friends is a doubtful and ticklish business, but in politics the showdown comes so quick and often that the trusting tenderfoot is likely to find himself all in before he has time to recover anything on his contributions to the jackpots of experience.

Any politician who has enough of the gift of prophecy six times in ten to pick a friend and spot an enemy on sight can have all the official persimmons he cares to gather in—and all creation can't stop him. But there aren't enough of this sort of men with the real simon-pure article of political second sight under their hats to keep the history of politics from looking like the report of a convention of traitors. The higher up you get, the greater is the pressure of practical necessity, and the board of strategy is constantly obliged to make larger drafts on the supposition that all's fair in love and war.

Speaking of leaning too hard on the shoulders of your love-at-first-sight friends reminds me of the experience of a young Democrat who saw the first Cleveland boom above the horizon when it was no bigger than a man's hand. Mr. Cleveland and his father had been friends from boyhood, and when the presidential bee began to buzz, Grover sent for the young man and put him in charge of everything in his state.

This was a nervy thing to do, for the reason that the state was in the doubtful list, but looked particularly promising that year for the Democrats. Then, too, the young man had been in the state but a short time and was not recognized by the regular machine which had a grip on several of the state offices.

When it got out that this young man held credentials straight from Cleveland as Captain of the Hosts in that state and was expected to send an instructed delegation to the national convention, there was war in camp and the machine leaders cut out their work to kill instructions and show "the little alien upstart" that he couldn't come into the state and run things over their heads.

They knew that the people of the party were with the young man and sentiment was strong throughout the state for Mr. Cleveland, but they also knew that in case of ultimate triumph all along the line the machine would have to stand back and watch the young friend of the man from Buffalo hand out the official plums and give orders for future business. This made them smart with resentment and they were determined to "show the young man," no matter if it cost the nomination of the only man who could carry the party to a national victory.

The first move they made was to put through the state central committee a new program for the coming convention that did violence to the precedents of years and reversed the order of business in such a manner that the chairman could hopelessly jockey the question of instructions by a confusion of amended motions.

But the young man saw just where and how the fight was shaping as well as they did. By long distance telephone he placed the situation before Mr. Cleveland, mapped out a line of action and had it approved in detail by the big chief. Then he called a conference of those interested in tying up the delegation snug and tight with instructions for Grover Cleveland and passed out the word that the one job on hand was to agree upon every detail of the fight in the convention so that there would be no pounding the air, no false motions—every blow aimed and timed to do the heaviest execution.

Now the young captain had touched up with the Mayor of his city, who was as smooth as axle grease and knew every party hanger-on by his front name. And that is only another way of saying that the city executive had a large list of hungry hunters for office for whom he had been unable to find places on the payroll.

Somehow Mr. Mayor managed to snuggle up to the vest of my young friend and warm a nice generous spot for himself there. As things moved along he brought a whole lot of his braves into the camp of my friend and gave them recommendations that would have done a candidate for Sunday-school superintendent proud.

Like yourself, the young leader thought he had found a friend that would stay with him until the roof fell in, and he hugged himself every time the Mayor's name came to his mind. Every now and then the Mayor would come to him and say:

"John, there's a young friend of mine who knows the ropes from deck to masthead and if you've no objection I should like to have him in the conference when we frame up the program. His advice is worth having, and I'd feel safer if he were right on hand where we could get the benefit of his knowledge."

"Oh, that's all right, of course," was the invariable reply, "your friends are my friends."

When the night of the pow-wow came and the conference assembled in secret session, my young friend looked upon the result of his labor and knew that it was good. As he scanned the faces in the packed room he caught the benignant and fatherly smile of the Mayor—and once more gave inward thanks for the aid of so stalwart a friend. Then his eye wandered over the rest of the assembled faithful; in every direction he looked his glance was met by the face of some bright young hustler who had been brought into the field by the invitation of the Mayor.

Yes, it was a great gift to be able to pick the right sort of friends and do it without the slow process of time. What was time, anyhow, when it came to forming the real attachments that hold men of the world together? he asked himself—and answered his own question with the scriptural line: "One day is as a thousand years, and a thousand years as one day." All this passed through his mind in a flash as the stragglers were settling down into their seats. There was a little well-trimmed oratory just to put the meeting into the proper spirit—and then the young leader arose and outlined the plan of action to be followed.

After a motion had been put to adopt the scheme as a fighting program in the convention, the Mayor arose and asked the privilege of "introducing" his views on one or two points which, he feared, had been "overlooked by the younger adherents of the cause." He didn't begin by clearing his throat—not he! He was too smooth for that. His voice was soft-pedaled down to the pitch of a moonlight prelude and every word dripped from his lips was coated with emulsion of honey.

Before he sat down he contrived to suggest that the conference was not a representative one; that the main spokes in the young man's machine were not delegates to the convention; that the person suggested for floor leader was not in touch with the rank and file of the party; that the young leader himself was not familiar with the ropes or the men who should manipulate them and that an adjournment should be taken until a "thoroughly representative body, mainly composed of actual delegates," could be brought together to determine upon the proper course of action.

Then, in purely an inadvertent way, he dropped the suggestion that a certain young man—an oily little whipper-snapper who had been sneaked into the convention under the Mayor's own coat-tails—had that "intimate acquaintance with local men and conditions which pre-eminently fitted him for the important position of floor leader in the convention," and that a certain trio of choice scamps from the city hall gang would make a strong committee that could skunk the enemy and get an instructed delegation for the Sage of Buffalo before the convention waked up to the knowledge that it was being worked.

But, in particular, the Mayor put the emphasis of his finish on the point that the plan of the young leader to overthrow the order of business outlined by the state central committee would not only arouse antagonism on the part of the regular organization, but was wholly unnecessary—as that result could be so easily and quietly accomplished by the resourceful trio he had suggested as a steering committee.

As the Mayor took his seat it was plain to see from the serene smile that oozed from the pores of his countenance that he expected his proposition would be accepted by the conference as eagerly as a mold of pigs-feet jelly would be assimilated by a Dutch picnic party.

Instantly my friend was on his feet—his eyes lit up like a blacksmith's anvil in a Saturday's rush of business.

"I may not have lived in this state as long as some people who are not yet buried," declared the young leader, "and I see evidences that I am a little short on a full knowledge of 'local men and conditions'; but I can tell the gentleman who has just spoken that I put away my teething ring and baby 'pacifier' several years ago and that my high chair went into the retirement of the family attic about the time he was first elected to office. There isn't going to be any postponement of this conference; I'm going to appoint the steering committee myself; the plan of action that I've outlined is going to be carried out in the convention to the letter—and he's going to get out of this meeting and get out quick. We'll stop right here while he takes himself away and if there are any others here of his stripe—and there are—they'll do well to follow him through the door. The headquarters of the old organization are over Siler's saloon—but I guess he knows the way."

Nothing short of this sudden show of nerve ever saved the young leader's bacon, for the oily man from the city hall had packed the conference with his own clansmen. Then, besides, there were several weak-kneed sisters in my young friend's forces, and without this stock of good fighting grit they would have wavered and faltered.

But that dash put sap into the whole outfit and they rushed the program through in a hurry and closed the conference. They had one spellbinder in the bunch who was a power when once he got on a full head of steam, but it took a heap of fire to get him started. This conference warmed him through and when, as floor leader, he let go his oratory the convention was swept off its feet and the instructions went through with whoop.

The Mayor tried to crawl back into the band wagon, but my young friend wouldn't so much as let him carry a torch in the precinct marching club. Later, after the election had placed Mr. Cleveland in the White House, the young leader was apportioned to deal out the plums in the state and the way he handled the applications for office on the part of the fellows who had been mixed up with his old thirty-day friend, the Mayor, was a study in the art of neglect.

"Once I believed in the doctrine of love at first sight," he remarked to me, "but now I don't trifle with any friendships that have not been seasoned in the open air of experience."

From all this some people might be inclined to draw the conclusion that the only safe thing to do is to hold all comers as enemies until they prove themselves friends, but you've too much horse sense to go to this extreme, I think. The man who hates at first sight is almost as likely to make a mess of it as the fellow whose friendship is set on a hair trigger.

In the last national campaign I was sent out to Iowa to do a little talking and to fill some emergency dates under the direction of the state central committee. One day the chairman of the oratory department said to me:

"One of our fellows who was billed to speak at Sugar Grove tomorrow night has jumped the track and I'd like to have you run down there and give them a rousing talk. Somehow that neck of the woods has been neglected by our folks, who've sort of let it go to the enemy by default. There isn't another place in the state where the right kind of a talk would do the good that it would there. Will you go?"

"Certainly," I answered. "It doesn't matter to me where you send me."

Now the young chap who hammered the typewriter had evidently taken a shine to me and when the captain of the spellbinder department stepped out of the room the lad said to me:

"It wouldn't be fair, sir, for me to keep still and let you go out to Sugar Grove without explaining that they'll mob you just as sure as you set foot in their measly little backwoods town. That's why the other man ducked at the last minute. There's a gang out there waiting to break the head of any man of our kind that dares to take the stump inside the county limits. We haven't been able to get a speaker to try it since the year of the big fight."

"The big fight?" I inquired.

"Yes," he answered, "that was the start of the whole thing. You see, the enemy is mighty strong there in Shellbark county, while we're on top in the next county of Dodd. About six years ago, in the state campaign, some of the Shellbark boys, on the other side, went into Dodd county to hold a big rally.

"Party feeling was high and a lot of hotheaded young chaps of our persuasion came down on the fold, used up all the over-ripe eggs and potatoes in the neighborhood and broke up the meeting. Then the Shellbark fellows swore that if we ever sent a speaker into their territory they'd mob him on sight. They're a mighty rough set there and we've never found a speaker yet who had the nerve to go up against them. It's a bad place and I'd suggest that you'd better be too sick, at the last minute, to go. Better be sick beforehand than dead afterwards, you know."

Although the lad knew what he was talking about and was tremendously in earnest, I had never flunked on an assignment and finally concluded that it was altogether too late in life to begin dodging.

Consequently, I put a pair of big-bore derringers in my overcoat pocket and started for Sugar Grove. There wasn't any brass band at the station to meet me, so far as I noticed, and the tavern-keeper's dog skinned his teeth at me in a way that wasn't exactly friendly. However, the bills announcing my speech were plastered over the horse sheds and the front of the blacksmith shop all right, and the fellow who had charge of the hall said that everything would be ready for the doings at night.

I asked him if he thought we should have a good crowd, and he replied that he reckoned that we'd have a crowd all right, but he didn't say anything about the quality of it.

There were plenty of fellows hanging about the tavern, whittling and pitching quoits, but not one of them ventured to make himself sociable with me. By supper time I had come to the conclusion that I knew something of the feelings of a fellow suddenly landed on a desert island and surrounded by dusky natives who were waiting for a good chance to stick him full of spears and call in their friends to the barbecue. At last I determined to get out and see if I couldn't shake off the gloom of the place by a good brisk walk of a mile or two. So I struck into a lively lope down the main traveled road and by the time I reached the wayside watering trough I was feeling a little more cheerful.

While taking a drink from the spout that fed the trough, about a dozen big husky young fellows on horseback drew up, jumped from their saddles and allowed their horses to drink. They paid no more attention to me than if I had been a grasshopper, but put in their time drinking red liquor out of the flasks they carried in their pockets. Then they mounted and rode on into town.

Right then and there I made up my mind that I was up against a tougher proposition than I had figured on, and that this gang of young ruffians and I would have to try each other out before the meeting was over.

Before I went from the tavern to the town hall I changed my pistols to the pockets of my undercoat and made up my mind that whatever happened I should stand pat and give them tit for tat.

The minute I came out on the platform I saw that the gang was planted in the front seats and that the strapping young chap who was evidently the leader had the chair on the aisle nearest me. I figured that about two jumps would land him on the platform, provided he felt disposed to get there.

There was but one thing to do and that I did. Looking the young leader squarely in the eyes, I fired my remarks straight at him—and I didn't mince matters either. Now and then my hand strayed into my side pocket, I confess, and touched up with the derringer, just for the sake of company.

Every minute I expected things to break loose—but, to my amazement, there wasn't a ripple of excitement and the whole meeting was as quiet as a funeral. Somehow, as I wound up my speech and stepped off the platform, I felt a little bit of something like disappointment at the fact that the affair had turned out so tamely.

But just at that moment the young fellow I had been talking at made towards me—and both my hands slipped into my side pockets again. He grinned quietly, however, and said to me in an undertone:

"You're all right, Governor. Perhaps you didn't know it, but the sheriff was a little afraid there might be trouble up here tonight and so he sent a bunch of us boys to take care of you if any rumpus broke out. This hain't the most peaceable place on the prairies, and there has been a good deal of bad blood here in the past. But I guess you've settled it that your party can hold a political meeting in this county if it wants to, without a killing. Now I'll walk over to the train with you and see that you get aboard all safe and sound. 'Tain't necessary, I know, but I promised the sheriff I would."

Up to that time I had always had the notion that I could spot an out-and-out enemy on sight, whether I could tell a friend at first sight or not. After that experience I came to the conclusion that snap judgments on human nature are on a par with snap caucuses, and that it takes a little time to try out either a friend or an enemy.

Yours as ever,

William Bradley.