University of Virginia Library

21. KISSING BY FAVOR.

In which Ned is told several stories to show that a whole lot of well-meaning reformers fire their guns at half-cock because they can't get it through their systems that kissing goes by favor—especially in political life—and that the system of reciprocal backscratching has put through more doubtful legislation than was ever paid for in the coin of the realm.

Brokenstraw Ranch, —, 19—.

Dear Ned: —

And so your committee appointed to investigate the shocking irregularities of your distinguished colleague from the old state has ordered a new whitewash brush and is going to bring in a report to the effect that it finds nothing beyond the regulation exchange of legislative back scratching—and that always has been and always will be a stock article in the assortment of Congressional courtesies. To be sure, it's considerably shelf-worn and a trifle damaged, but there'll never be a time when it will fail to pass as current coin on the floor of any House.

A whole lot of well-meaning reformers fire their guns at half-cock because they can't get it into their systems that kissing goes by favor. Unless human nature has changed a good deal from what it was in the days when I used to occupy a bench in the old school house of District No. 10, alongside Kitty Nolan and the red-headed Crane girl, the same rule holds good today and has fewer exceptions than almost any other rule in existence.

The reason why the reformers and real investigating committees strike so many false leads and blind trails is because they forget this interesting fact of human nature and set it down that every kiss is marked in plain figures and is settled for in cold coin or its equivalent in listed securities.

I'll never forget a little experience I had along this line, myself, in the days when I was decidedly inexperienced in the devious paths of legislation. It was in my first term in the House, back in the old state. The leader of the House had taken good care of me in the matter of committees and, for all I knew, he was doing business on the square. Consequently, I generally consulted him on anything important that came up and, with few exceptions, acted on his advice. Probably some of the other fellows put it that I took my orders from him.

One day he came to me and said: "Here's a bill for the opening of a street through the property of a widow, in Riverville; I've talked with a fellow from there who says they're trying to do her. Now, I'm not much of a philanthropist, but my mother was a widow and I like to see all of 'em get a good fair shake."

"All right," I replied. "I'm not very busy and I'll see the boys and ask them to help knock it out."

In a short time I had enough votes herded to kill out the measure. Then it passed out of my recollection altogether.

A little later a mighty innocent looking bill incorporating a bridge company with rights to construct a bridge across one-half the big stream at Riverville had slipped through first and second reading. Somehow I just happened to notice it one day and began to suspect that there was a crooked streak behind it. I knew old Simon Burns, the king pin of Riverville politics, and, on the impulse of the moment, I wired him to know if some of the fellows weren't getting meat out of it. He answered: "You bet. Don't let her slip through. I'll be there tomorrow."

There was a circus in town when old Simon arrived and a good many of the livelier members were absent from the House watching the girls in gauze shoot themselves through the hoops.

"We'll spoil the fun of that bunch over the river, all right," said Simon. "They're mostly from across the state line anyway. Just move the amendment that I've fixed up and we'll make their cake into dough in a jiffy."

The amendment simply substituted for the original incorporators the names of a bunch of solid business men in Riverville.

I saw that the right minute had come and I sprung the amendment without waiting for another word of explanation. It went through by unanimous consent, as slick as grease, and that settled it. I thought nothing more about it excepting to enjoy the joke on the fellows who had hatched the measure and left it without a home guard while they went to the circus.

About a fortnight after the close of the session, when I was wondering where my next law case would come from and how I would pay the office rent, I received a telegram from old Simon telling me to come at once to Riverville. He wasn't given to sending out any false alarms and so I responded. From his place he took he into a new building, to an office that looked spanfired new and as neat as wax. Pointing to a handsome walnut desk he said:

"Young man, that's your desk. You're the general counsel of the Riverville Bridge & Iron Company and your job is to keep the company out of trouble until the construction work is finished. The salary will be $100 a month—and by the looks of things I guess you're likely to earn it all right. If you can't keep the coast clear we'll lift you out bodily and get some one who can, in double quick time. All you've got to do now is to wait for something to happen. Better put in your leisure time talking with the superintendent and getting an idea of what has been done and what's likely to turn up."

Just then a hundred dollars a month looked bigger to me than a thousand does now and I was mighty anxious to hold down that job, I can tell you. The second day of my stay, before I had more than located the points of the compass, a fellow came rushing into the office, shouting for the "lawyer man." After he'd caught his breath I managed to get out of him that the company's whole force of workmen had been arrested on a charge of riot and were on their way to a justice shop, down the river.

Of course, I knew this was a move of the men who had put up the scheme in the first place and who had been knocked out by my amendment to the legislative bill of incorporation. When I reached the justice shop, I found it packed and the lawyer for the other side waiting to open up the legal battle. The law was as plainly on our side of the case as my nose is on the front side of my face, but as fast as I could put up the legal points, in the preliminary skirmish, the justice proceeded to turn them down. There's some chance of getting an opening with a packed jury—but with a packed justice of the peace the unanimity of opposition is not only oppressive but overwhelming.

It didn't take me long to figure that my salary of $100 a month was the real issue in the case and that I'd get my dismissal in short order unless I could take a new twist on the case—and take it mighty suddenly. Under the circumstances that "assured income" loomed up on my mental horizon like a lighthouse in a fog. I did some quick thinking and decided that the only thing to do was to spar for time in the hope that some way out would open up in the natural course of proceedings. On this plan I jockeyed along and took occasion to contest every move and statement brought forward by the opposition.

The fight had been drawn out by this plan of petty skirmishing for about an hour without the slightest change in the situation, when a man leaned over my shoulder and said:

"Well, Bradley, how are you making it?"

For my life I couldn't call the fellow's name, although his face was familiar.

"Can't quite place me, eh?" he continued. "I'm Sam Evans—served in the last House but didn't make any particular noise, so I don't blame you. But what about this case?"

"The cards are all stacked against me—the judge knocks out every point I raise without regard to rhyme or reason. I guess the other side has got him all right—and this little fight makes a whole lot of difference to me, too."

"It does, eh?" he answered. "Well, I can tell you that if the judge knew you he would give you a fair chance all right."

With this Evans left me, went forward to the judge's desk, chatted a moment with him and then beckoned me to come to the desk.

"Judge Heffer," he said, "I want you to know my friend and colleague, Mr. Bradley. He's the man who knocked out the bill in the legislature, to grab off the widow's property by putting that street through it."

"Glad to meet you, sir," responded the Judge. "That bill was a most infamous attempt to rob my sister of her rights—but I suppose we must go on with the case now."

For a few minutes the opposing lawyer seemed to have things his own way, but suddenly, when a vital point arose, the Judge gave him a knock-out ruling. My heart gave a new thump of hope and I took another grip on the salary proposition. In an hour the tussle was over and I came out with a slick and clean victory. As I walked back to the office the old saying, "kissing goes by favor," kept running through my mind like the lines of an old song.

Later I had the nub of that saying rubbed into me good and hard. It was the winter when old Shellbark was governor. He could spit tobacco juice farther than any man on the state payroll and he could certainly read and write in a fashion of his own—but he didn't take to either of those pursuits just by way of pastime, for that sort of scholarly exercise was too much like work for him. Consequently he was inclined to get as much help as possible along those lines.

That session the General Assembly ground out more bills than were ever put through the Senate and House before at any sitting. There were simply hundreds of them and they were carried over to the Executive Mansion in bushel baskets. Among those bills I had a measure that the people of my district wanted hard. It was straight as a die, although local in its application. During the whole session I had consistently put in my time snuffing out the loaded measures that came up—and it so happened that a good share of those that I succeeded in burying were engineered by Wash Peters, a little freckled runt of a for-revenue-only statesman from a slum district, up in the city. Naturally my pernicious activity made him sore and he swore he'd get even with me before the game was finished. It made him especially mad when the boys gave me the name of "the snake killer."

After the session was closed I thought that everything was snug and safe and so I went home on the first train. But Wash was in no hurry. He hung around the Executive Mansion with his side partner and managed to be on hand that afternoon when the Governor sat down to tackle the last bushel basket of bills. Shellbark sighed as he started in on his long job and found the reading mighty slow work. Finally Wash casually remarked:

"Governor, if Ed and I can give you a lift by reading off them bills and handing 'em up to you, we're at your service—don't want to crowd the mourners at all but—"

"Sure!" interrupted old Shellbark, "draw right up and give me a boost."

In a short time the two volunteer helpers were simply reading the titles and before the basket was half emptied the Governor was signing bills on the say-so of the boys, and about as fast as they could hand them up. Occasionally they would strike one that they knew the Governor was not in sympathy with and it would be handed over with the remark "Here's a snake."

Along towards the last Wash struck my pet bill, and quietly passed it over to Shellbark with the crisp comment: "Another snake."

"Killed," answered the Governor as he put his veto upon it and reached out for the next document.

Those two scoundrels did more work that afternoon at the Governor's desk than they'd done in a week—but they taught me another lesson in kissing by favor as a fine art.

When you get right down to brass tacks there's a whole heap of variety in this kissing business, and I never was more impressed with this than by the experience of Lemuel Horton, who looked after the legal interests of a big corporation up in the city. He was as bright as a new tin dipper but hadn't had any particular experience in greasing legislation. The boys got out after his company with a healthy assortment of sandbags and he was sent down to kill off the bill. Like a good many of the reformers he failed to take into consideration the fact that kissing goes by favor and he calculated that it was a plain matter of buy and sell from start to finish.

One of the first men he struck was " Bull" Kelly, a senator who held the whiphand in most of the underground work.

"You need just four more votes in the Senate," said Bull, "to kill out the measure. I'll see the right fellows and tell you tonight just what it'll take to cover the bunch."

That night he reported that $5,000 would do the business and that the necessary "Texas steers" had been rounded up on that basis. The money was paid to Bull and the bill was sidetracked.

When the session was over, Lawyer Horton was one day surprised to receive a call from a go-between who intimated that some of the senators who killed the objectionable bill had a powerful poor opinion of the way one Lemuel Horton played the game.

Now Horton was a sticker for honor according to his lights and he immediately invited Bull and the three senators whose votes had been delivered to meet him in a certain restaurant. They all entered appearance, had a good dinner and were just on the point of leaving when Horton turned to Bull, and looking him straight in the eye asked:

"Did I give you $5,000 for your own vote and that of these three men?"

Without batting an eye Bull replied:

"Sure you did."

"And did you pass any of it along to them?"

"Not on your life! Let me tell you, sir, that I wouldn't insult the honor of these gentlemen by offering them a bribe. I asked them to vote against that bill just to oblige a friend and they said they'd do it. And they did it, too. There isn't a stain upon their honor, sir, as big as a fly speck and I'll defend them against the slanders of the world."

Then, with a smile, Bull buttoned up his coat, said "Good bye, boys," and walked out of the door—fairly chuckling at the faces, blank with astonishment, that he left behind him.

No, Ned, the history of legislation can't be written without due attention to the text of "kissing by favor," and those who overlook this fact have yet to learn the game.

Yours as ever,

William Bradley.