University of Virginia Library

18. AT DROP OF THE HAT.

In which William Bradley puts it down as a safe rule that, in politics, the man who is worth tying up with will do business at drop of the hat or not at all and that when a man who knows when to lay down three aces asks for time to sleep over a proposition and incidentally to consult a few disinterested friends before showing his hand, there is trouble ahead.

Brokenstraw Ranch, —, 19—.

Dear Ned: —

Your letter saying that the fellows who run things in the southern end of the state have asked for more time in which to consider your proposition for a combination of forces that would put you in line for the Governorship, calls for a little comment. You may put it down as a safe rule that, in politics, the man who knows the game and is worth tying up with will do business at drop of the hat.

When a good, wide-awake politician tells you that he wants to sleep over a proposition, just put it down that he is simply playing you for time and intends to throw you down at the finish. No real political leader will insist upon submitting a prospective move to his camp followers, his wife and his attorneys, and if he intimates that something of this kind is necessary make up your mind that the fellows he proposes to consult belong to the camp of the enemy.

You hear a whole lot of talk to the effect that the lightning deciders are holding down heavyweight jobs in the pay of big business houses and corporations, but I have never noticed any of them who could quite touch the real politician on the score of an instantaneous exposure of decision. His mental shutters are ready to work at the squeeze of the bulb and when they don't work that way you may take your choice between two conclusions: he has got a better trick to play than the one you offer or else he's suffering from a temporary attack of political spring-halt, politely called conservatism.

Now and then the readiest and snappiest players of the political game have spasms of acute caution when they crave the soothing syrup of "consultation." But you can't take this kind of medicine without also taking time to sleep off its effects, and time is the essence of all political contracts, as well as mortgages, trust deeds and other effective compacts.

A young political leader can't put in his spare minutes to better advantage than in watching himself to see that his attacks of the colic of conservatism don't carry him off his feet at the critical turns in his career. But you may depend upon it that when a crisis is up to him and he needs to meet it with the ready blow of instant decision, straight from the shoulder, he will feel quivers of hesitation centering towards the pit of his stomach, and his internal economy will cry out for the seductive prescription of delay, advice and sympathetic council—the poppy-distilled potion that has put scores of good politicians to sleep at the moment when they might have grasped the great prize of life's ambition.

Of course, you remember the big fight that landed Dave Macey in the United States Senate, but you were not so close to the center of things that you could see all the hands that were played off before Dave finally managed to tire out the machine and make the necessary number of balky country members back up to his wagon and submit to the Macey farm harness. As I was one of the organization steering committee in that fight, I naturally know a deal of its inside history and I promise you it is rich in chapters that would bear out the general title "He might have been."

However, there was one might-have-been whose history throws light on the subject of misplaced political hesitation in a way that is calculated to illuminate the path of any young leader who attempts to flirt with the proud and prudish goddess of delay.

Martin Moore was the machine candidate—one of the old wheelhorses of the organization who had been marked for promotion. I suppose United States Senators have been made out of timber a deal smaller than Mart, who was a shrewd, resourceful and shifty old boy with that rugged sort of homeliness which is a good deal better than handsome looks in catching the fancy of the plain people. While Mart could make a pretty fair talk, he was no spellbinder, and his brand of campaign eloquence hadn't enough bubbles in it to enthuse a public that had been educated on campmeeting and revival sermons with the real fireworks in them.

But Mart had one strong point in addition to his masterful homeliness. As a barefooted lad he had driven canal boats. We started him out as the "tow-path candidate" and expected that this cry would stampede the common people and land him in the Senate without any particular difficulty. Sometimes the right sort of a nickname will do more to catch the votes of the masses than a genius for statesmanship and a record without a hole in it, and often a fortunate phrase as a campaign cry will get a candidate a bigger crowd of followers than a spotless life and a righteous cause.

However, the reform newspapers began to hammer Martin, and they continued to pound his tow-path clean through his career in the legislature in a way that rather rapped the romance out of our campaign cry and diverted attention from the barefooted boy on the canal boat to the man who had been mixed up with a string of legislative measures that had become decidedly unpopular.

To make matters worse, the best story teller, mixer and general campaigner in the state decided to cut into the game and try to land the big prize. We accused him of not having enough dignity to keep from telling a funny story at a funeral, but somehow he continued to make headway and gather in a stray member now and then. The other man in the fight, so far as our party was concerned, was a highly respectable and dignified citizen who had three mighty handy qualifications—a barrel, no political record and one of those conservative temperaments that stand at zero when making love or grabbing off the ambition of a lifetime.

For weeks and months every faction stood its ground and fought tooth and nail for each inch of advantage. If ever a political machine was worked to the limit ours was in that fight. We took slack, sanded the track, threw the throttle wide open, and still the deadlock refused to budge. In short, we were stuck.

When it was clear that we had reached the absolute limit of our strength, and couldn't pull another ounce with Martin as a candidate he did the square thing by telling us to take up any other man who could draw enough votes from the other candidates to save the victory to the organization. We hated to drop him, for he was a stayer of the old-fashioned sort, but there was nothing else to do but shift to some fellow who could bring a little strength of his own and pull enough votes from the others to elect.

It was late in the afternoon when we reached the showdown stage of the game and the steering committee met in secret session to pick out a new candidate who could show us the way out of the woods. After the other fellows had suggested a half dozen men who were promptly put out of the running by arguments from the assembled bosses I saw a light and said:

"Boys, what's the matter with 'Sugarlips' Sunridge? He's strong with the administration; he's the father of the Young Men's Republican League; he's one of the bright and shining lights of the bar; the reform newspapers have been sounding his praises ever since he first showed his head in politics; there isn't a man in the state who can fly the oratorical kite with a longer string; his lips drop sweetness on every fellow who passes the time of day with him; he can tell almost as good a story as the Insurgent candidate; his dignity would make a senatorial toga get right off its peg with delight at the chance to fit his shoulders, and—"

"Look here!" interrupted the real boss. "Just save the rest for the nominating speech. He'll do if he'll jump into the fight and show that he can bring in some votes. But he's got to show us first—remember that! Send for him, and have him here before daylight. If he don't get on the ground and throw out a skirmish line before business opens up at the state house he'll be everlastingly too late, for there's going to be a break-up mighty sudden."

I fired a telegram to Sugarlips telling him to catch the evening train for the capital. Then I sat down and held a little session with myself. Better than any one else I knew that he had the elements of strength which would pull the six votes required to elect away from the other fellows; in fact, I could count up the very men he could be depended upon to draw into our line.

On the other hand, I knew that two or three other emergency candidates had also been sent for by the big boss, and that the agreement among the members of the slate-making department to keep mum and let the dark horses strike out and develop their own strength must be observed to the letter. Not one of them was to be told the strength or the weakness of the organization, and each was simply to be given the chance to strike out and make a showing on his own responsibility.

Sunridge was my personal friend. We had read law in the same office as young men and tried scores of cases together later on. If he were elected I could count on almost any appointment I might ask for, and could swing an influence that would put me way ahead in the race I was running. And, besides all that, I felt it in my boots that he was the only dark horse who could really come in winner on the home stretch.

You can just bet that after I had sat for hours with my heels on the table figuring this situation up one side and down the other I began to wish that I could get behind the train that was bringing Sunridge and do a little lively pushing, for I knew that every minute before the morning roll call was precious in the sight of the big boss and meant heaps of things to me.

At 2 o'clock in the morning Sunridge walked into the hotel and I grabbed his grip, made a dash for the elevator and led him away to a high place to show him the kingdoms of the earth.

As he lighted a cigar I unrolled the situation to him as well as I could under the limitations placed upon me.

"It's as plain to me," I said, "as a red barn on a sidehill that this is your hour and you're the man for the hour. I can promise you that the minute you show us enough votes from the other camps to elect you with those of the machine our whole strength will go to you in a jiffy. We'll make good on the dot, and all you've got to do is to show us the margin. When we used to thumb the same copy of Blackstone in old Judge Bunker's office we didn't dream that you'd have a seat in the United States Senate within your reach, and that I'd be the fellow to push it in front of you, did we?"

"N—o," he answered, lighting a fresh cigar with the tip of his stub. "But, Bill, you see this is very sudden." Somehow that remark made my enthusiasm splutter out like the sizzling cigar stub he dropped into the cuspidor.

"So sudden!" I replied. "That's what my wife said when I proposed after a courtship stringing over the space of three years. And maybe you want another year to consider it in as she did!"

"Not quite as long as that, Bill," he answered, good-naturedly. "But the fact is I must sleep over it. It's a very important step—very important—and you couldn't quite expect me to take it without a little consultation with my most confidential advisers."

The confounded deliberation with which he drawled this out in his soothing syrup tones riled me and I was mad in a second—didn't care much, for a minute, whether he came into the fight or not. But later I cooled down a little and went the length of my rope in painting his opportunity in the rosiest possible colors.

"Now, old man," I said, slapping him on the back, "the thing for you to do is to rustle a few of the boys out of bed, get them in line and then go down to the desk and arrange for opening your headquarters at day-break along with the rest of the dark horses. Do it and you'll come in under the wire and leave them among the 'also-rans.'"

"N—o," he drawled, "I'll see you at breakfast and give you my decision."

While he was snoring in the next room I could hear the hoofs of the other dark horse candidates going up and down the hall and the voice of Happy Dave, the Insurgent, in the room over my head was busy telling stories to a bunch of country members who pounded the floor with their boots as he made each point in his yarns. I'd heard those stories so often I could tell which one was being told by the way the applause came in.

Well, at breakfast Sunridge nibbled at his toast and said:

"I've about decided to make the race, Bill, but there are two men I must see before I can really jump into the fight. I never take any big step without consulting them, and this is a case which demands the soundest counsel. I'll be over to the state house a little later an let you know."

I'll never forget the expression on his face as he slipped down the aisle of the House two hours later and stood beside my desk. The roll call was in progress and three of the fellows who had previously been with old Stiff-neck, the Conservative, fell into the Insurgent bandwagon. I remember hearing their haw-haws the last thing before I dropped asleep about 5 o'clock that morning.

Of course, the Insurgents yelled like a lot of Thanksgiving football rooters. Then came the break. A dozen members were on their feet shouting for a chance to change their votes and the fight was all in.

Sugarlips stood there, his mouth partially open, and his eyes bulging. "I had come—ah—come to say I'd do it," he said in a dazed way.

"Well," I answered, "after you've slept over it and consulted your friends, the members of your family and a few of your social acquaintances, I'd be pleased to introduce you to the man who'll sit, for the next six years, in the seat in the United States Senate that you could have had, at drop of the hat, if you'd just said 'Yep' after I'd given you the tip at 3:30 this morning."

His infernal hesitation put the whole organization out of business for four years, and all the spokes and wheels of the machine we'd been ten years in building haven't been gathered up yet; it set me back eight years on the Governorship and smashed the political, chances of a dozen of his best friends. But it taught him a lesson, for a big corporation offered him a position as general counsel, a month later, and he snapped up the tender before the president could reach for his hat.

Whatever you trifle with, Ned, don't attempt to play with the whirligig of Time in the game of politics. It will throw you quicker 'n a green broncho. Remember the Scriptures and make peace with the adversary quickly, while you're in the way with him.

The man who knows when to lay down three aces will never ask the boys to hold the game open while he sleeps on the proposition—and incidentally consults a few disinterested friends.

Yours as ever,

William Bradley.