University of Virginia Library

22. THE GAME AND THE CANDLE.

Ned bas been elevated to the United States Senate and William Bradley is much moved by this big jump on the part of his protege. The old Governor cogitates on the question "Is the game worth the candle" and concludes that it is "If you play it square." Also he tells a story and points the moral: "Don't get toppy; don't get sloppy, and don't forget to put out an anchor to the windward."

Brokenstraw Ranch, —, 19—.

Dear Ned: —

Whew! but how things do move! It doesn't seem but a few months ago when you were all torn up the back over the prospect of going to Congress. Now, before you've fairly had time to acquire the Washington habit and get a line on the main features of the landscape, the senior Senator from your state up and dies and your Governor promptly appoints you to fill the vacancy, with four years of unexpired term to your credit.

Of course it wouldn't look well in print, and I'll have to haul you over the coals a good many times to offset it, but I'm moved to remark, Ned, that the part these two statesmen have played in your promotion constitutes, in my opinion, the most distinguished and useful service they have ever rendered their state or the nation at large—and I've known them both fairly well for a good many years, at that.

When I opened your telegram I flung my hat to the top of the haystack and let out a regular old-time campaign yell. Then I went out to the cottonwood grove and sat down on my "drumming log" to think things over. And as the breeze had fun with the leaves and the sun snuggled down to the edge of the horizon line, I couldn't help doing a little figuring on the old question: Is the game worth the candle?

After due debate I'm prepared to answer: Yes—if you play it square! And, as Sister Buck used to say in conference meeting, if I know my own heart I'm ready to answer at the last roll-call for the deeds in the body. Occasionally I've come dangerously near fighting the devil with fire and I've showed traces of Indian blood at times, but I've played the game square according to Hoyle, and I say it without shame. Some good people have only one rule for playing the game of politics—and that is: Don't play it at all. On that basis I confess judgment; but not on any other.

I've kept a close watch on you, Ned, right from the start, and I'll confess that you've stood the test straight from the beginning. According to my notion you've touched the top notch in American politics for any man who has sense enough to know that he's neither weak enough nor strong enough to become President. For a real, live statesman, a seat in the United States Senate is as fine a field in which to start a furrow as he could find. But even there, you can't shut your eyes to snags ahead and you'll have to face several of them.

Did you ever stop to think that just two epitaphs will fit the tombstones of nine-tenths of the politicians and statesmen that ever lived or will ever die? One is "Kicked out" and the other is "Dead." The number of those who have played the game and retired from choice wouldn't make up into a respectable snap caucus. The next four years will go past you like a scared jack rabbit and then you'll be a heap fiercer for a return to the Senate than you were for the appointment you've just landed.

You'll hanker for "vindication at the hands of the people" as the hart panteth for the waterbrooks—and besides that you'll be loaded up with more unfinished business than an open session of a woman's club. Of course, right now you feel pretty sure of your ground and the snags ahead are as far below the angle of your vision as a divorce is to the bride who hasn't shaken the rice out of her new clothes. But just let your Uncle Bill offer a suggestion or two that may come in handy four years from now, when the legislature meets to divide your garments.

Don't get toppy; don't get sloppy; and don't forget to put out a few sheet anchors to the windward.

Along at the beginning of my legislative service I had a mighty poor spell, weighed just a little more than my shadow and found it hard sledding to sit up and take notice during the day time. I guess I looked like one of Uncle Seth Wheeler's lattice-work horses after being turned out to browse on hazel-brush for a winter. We had a new Speaker that session and he came to me, right at the start, and said:

"Young man, you've got to favor yourself or you'll go under. Here's a key to my private room. There's a big lounge in there and I want you to make good use of it. Don't be afraid that something'll slip through on the floor that you're interested in. I'll keep a sharp eye out for you and when you're needed I'll send a page after you."

That act of thoughtfulness went right home to me, for I wasn't cutting any wide swath then, our party had a big working majority and I had been for another man for Speaker in the caucus. In fact, Fire-eater—as we called the Speaker—hadn't much to gain by any attentions paid to me, and so I gave him credit for plain friendliness without any discount on the score of policy. And everything he did proved that he wasn't toppy or inclined to throw his front feet. Well, I used his room and saved my strength when I needed all of it I could muster.

The next year we were due to elect a United States Senator and things were badly cut up on party lines, especially in the city. I stood in with the big man in city politics and he let me have my way about a good many things and listened to my advice about others. There was one district in which we'd never elected a man and couldn't hope to. One of the Crane boys, from my home town, had settled there and was running a big tin shop. He was strong with the Labor element and took a lively interest in politics.

"Tom," I said to him one day, "how would you like to go to the State Senate?"

"Why, of course I'd like to—but I never thought of it as possible."

"But it is," I answered. "You get the Labor nomination and I'll see to it that enough of our men vote for you to beat the enemy. We can't elect a man outright, but our votes, combined with your own party strength, will put you through all right."

He was wise enough to know that there was something behind this move and so he came straight out and asked:

"And then, what?"

"Just this: if we need your vote for a good man for United States Senator you'll give it when I say the word—and not till then."

"All right. I guess I can trust you for that," he said. He landed the nomination and the votes I threw his way elected him.

The first count of noses when the new members were rounded up on the skirmish for organization showed that we had just enough votes, to a man, to elect. But one of the senators, who had been in the House where Fire-eater had given him a deserved snub, gave it out that he wasn't going into the caucus for, if the former Speaker should get the party nomination, he wouldn't vote for him under any consideration and all kingdom-come couldn't force him to, either.

As I was chairman of the State Central Committee, it was up to me to bring him into line and, at first, I tried persuasion. But the more I argued the higher he tilted his nose and the louder he swore that he'd stand out 'till grass sprouted again.

The morning after the gathering of the clans at the capitol Fire-eater sat down at my table in the hotel and told stories all through the breakfast. As we arose he said: "Bill, I'd like to see you up in my room sometime this morning."

"All right," I responded, "but there's one thing I want to say to you now."

"No," he interrupted, "save it 'till later."

"But I don't wish to," I insisted. "You haven't said a word to me about your position on the Senatorial fight, and before you do I'm going to tell you that I'm—for you!"

He grabbed my hand with a squeeze that made me cringe and said:

"Never mind about coming to the room. Just tell me if you've got a list of our new fellows."

I handed him out the document and his eye took in the names with a sweep. Then he pulled three letters out of his pocket and filled in the post office address, commenting:

"These were the only ones I missed out of the bunch. All the others are reading their letters of congratulation by this time."

That was Fire-eater all over! He was right on the dot every time. The old Senator put in his appearance two days later and said: "Give me a copy of the list in the next few days—no hurry." And, seeing he felt that way about it, I didn't hurry, either.

Well, Fire-eater skinned him to death in the caucus, and then the lime light shifted to the obstreperous State Senator who had staid out of the caucus, breathing threatenings and slaughter against the regular nominee.

No one of the men in the party beside myself knew of the card that I held up my sleeve in the shape of my friend the Labor senator. First I made sure he would stand up to the rack if I called him—then I went up to the bolter's room for a little chat.

When I asked him if he hadn't concluded to back into the fills and be good he bawled out:

"Never!"

"Look here," I came back at him, "You'll vote for him—and on the first ballot, too, by Mighty! And after that you'll get just what's coming to you, which is small potatoes. You'll shed your importance in about a minute."

Meantime the situation was strung up tighter than the G-string of a fiddle and the one who felt the strain most was the little wife of Fire-eater. She was in the gallery when the show-down came in the shape of the roll-call. Tom's name came before the upstart Senator's. I walked to the tinsmith's desk and simply whispered to him: "Pass for the present." As the bolter saw me do this his face turned gray with rage. Then his name was called. He stood up, balked, and finally said: "Under protest and in the interest of harmony—" The little woman in the gallery jumped plumb out of her seat when the renegade voted—and he was never allowed to finish his explanation.

"I've a good notion to vote with you anyway," Tom said to me as the applause died down, but I told him to hold off as it wasn't necessary to go against his party.

For the rest of the session I took solid comfort in handing out sackcloth and ashes in liberal portions to that renegade Senator who tried to throw us—and when he came up for re-election I finished up the job by seeing that he was left at home. But it always scared me to think of what would have happened to us that year if I hadn't put out an anchor to the windward in the way of the deal that elected the little tinsmith to the State Senate on the Labor ticket.

Remember some of these things when you face the fight four years from now—and don't forget to let me know when you're going to make your maiden speech in the Senate—for I want to be on hand. And tell the wife I'm not a bit ashamed of the boy who dodged the widow and has patiently stood for a whole lot of advice from an old stager.

Yours ever, William Bradley.