The hurly-burly had now ceased; all was as calm and equal as a goose pond.
“So you saved the old gentleman,” said Big Kennedy, as he came towards me. “Gratitude, I s’pose, because he stood pal to you ag’inst Sheeny Joe that time. Gratitude! You’ll get over that in time,” and Big Kennedy wore a pitying look as one who dwells upon another’s weakness. “That was Jimmy the Blacksmith you smashed. You’d better look out for him after this.” My dander was still on end, and I intimated a readiness to look out for Jimmy the Blacksmith at once.
“Mind your back now!” cautioned Big Kennedy, “and don’t take to gettin’ it up. Let things go as they lay. Never fight till you have to, d’ye see! an’ never fight for fun. Don’t go lookin’ for th’ Blacksmith until you hear he’s out lookin’ for you.” Then, as shifting the subject: “It’s been a great day, an’ everything to run off as smooth an’ true as sayin’ mass. Now let’s go back and watch’em count the votes.”
“Did we beat them?” I asked.
“Snowed’em under!” said Big Kennedy.
CHAPTER VI – THE RED JACKET ASSOCIATION
BIG KENNEDY’S success at the election served to tighten the rivets of his rule. It was now I looked to see him ferret forth and punish those renegades who had wrought against him in the dark. To my amazement he engaged himself in no such retaliatory labor. On the contrary he smiled on all about him like the sun at noon. Was it folly or want of heart that tied his hands? Assuredly it was error, and this I submitted to Old Mike. That veteran of policy disagreed with this, meanwhile beaming upon me in a way of fatherly cunning.
“Jawn knows his business,” said Old Mike. “Thim people didn’t rebel, they sold out. That’s over with an’ gone by. Everybody’ll sell ye out if he gets enough; that’s a rishk ye have to take. There’s that Limerick man, Gaffney, however; ye’ll see something happen to Gaffney. He’s one of thim patent-leather Micks an’ puts on airs. He’s schemin’ to tur-rn Jawn down an’ take th’ wa-ard. Ye’ll see something happen to that Limerick man, Gaffney.”
Gaffney made his money with flour and horse feed and hay and similar goods. Also, as Old Mike said, Gaffney was ambitious. It was within the week, when a midnight shower of stones smashed sash and glass and laid waste that offensive merchant’s place of business. Gaffney restored his sash and glass only to invite a second midnight storm of stones. Three times were Gaffney’s windows smashed by hands unknown; and no police officer would go within two blocks of Gaffney’s. In the end, Gaffney came to Big Kennedy. The latter met him with a hectoring laugh.
“Why do you come to me?” asked Big Kennedy. “Somebody’s been trying to smash the windows of my leadership for over a year, but I never went howling about it to you.”
Gaffney showed not a little shaken. He asked, in a manner sullen yet beaten, what he should do.
“I’d get out of th’ ward,” replied Big Kennedy as cool as ice. “Somebody’s got it in for you. Now a man that’ll throw a brick will light a match, d’ye see, an’ a feed store would burn like a tar barrel.”
“If I could sell out, I’d quit,” said Gaffney.
“Well,” responded Big Kennedy, “I always like to help a friend.”
Grocer Fogel bought Gaffney’s store, making a bargain.
This iron-bound lesson in practical politics I dwell on in full. I drew from it some notion of the stern character of that science. Old Mike, from the pinnacles of his hard experience, looked down to justify it.
“Gaffney would do th’ same,” said Old Mike, “if his ar-rm was long enough. Politics is a game where losers lose all; it’s like war, shure, only no one’s kilt – at any rate, not so many.”
As the days drew on, I grew in favor with Big Kennedy, and the blossom thereof took this color.
“Why don’t you start a club?” he asked one afternoon, as we sat in his sanctum. “You could bring two hundred young fellows together, couldn’t you?”
“Yes,” I replied. I spoke doubtfully; the suggestion was of the sharpest, and gave me no space to think. It was one, too, which asked questions of the kind that don’t answer themselves. “But where would they meet?” I put this after a pause.
“There’s the big lodgeroom over my saloon,” and Big Kennedy tossed his stubby thumb towards the ceiling. “You could meet there. There’s a dumb waiter from the bar to send up beer and smokes.”
“How about the Tin Whistles?” I hinted. “Would they do to build on?”
“Leave the Tin Whistles out. They’re all right as shoulder-hitters, an’ a swifter gang to help at the polls, or break up the opposition’s meetin’s, never walked the streets. But for a play of this kind, they’re a little off color. Your Tin Whistles can join, man by man, but if they do they must sing low. They mustn’t try to give the show; it’s the back seat for them. What you’re out for now is the respectable young workin’-man racket; that’s the lay.”
“But where’s the money?” said I. “These people I have in mind haven’t much money.”
“Of course not,” retorted Big Kennedy confidently, “an’ what little they have they want for beer. But listen: You get the room free. Then once a year your club gives an excursion on the river; it ought to sell hundreds of tickets because there’ll be hundreds of officeholders, an’ breweries, an’ saloon keepers, an’ that sort who’ll be crazy to buy’em. If they aint crazy to start with, you ought to be able to make’em crazy th’ first election that comes ‘round. The excursion should bring three thousand dollars over an’ above expenses, d’ye see. Then you can give balls in the winter an’ sell tickets. Then there’s subscriptions an’ hon’ry memberships. You’ll ketch on; there’s lots of ways to skin th’ cat. You can keep th’ club in clover an’ have some of the long green left. That’s settled then; you organize a young men’s club. You be president an’ treasurer; see to that. An’ now,” here Big Kennedy took me by the shoulder and looked me instructively in the eye, “it’s time for you to be clinchin’ onto some stuff for yourself. This club’s goin’ to take a lot of your time. It’ll make you do plenty of work. You’re no treetoad; you can’t live on air an’ scenery.” Big Kennedy’s look deepened, and he shook me as one who demands attention. “You’ll be president and treasurer, particularly treasurer; and I’ll chip you in this piece of advice. A good cook always licks his fingers.” Here he winked deeply.
This long speech was not thrown away. Big Kennedy, having delivered himself, lapsed into silence, while I sat ruminating ways and means and what initiatory steps I should take.
“What shall we call it?” I asked, as I arose to go.
“Give it an Indian name,” said Big Kennedy. “S’p-pose you call it the Red Jacket Association.”
Within the fortnight the Red Jackets held their maiden meeting. It was an hour rife of jubilation, fellowship, and cheer. While abstinence from drink was my guiding phrase, I made no point of that kind in the conduct of others, and a nearby brewery having contributed unlimited beer those whom it pleased lacked no reason for a light heart.
As Big Kennedy had advised, I was chosen for the double responsibilities of president and treasurer. I may say in my own compliment, however, that these honors came drifting to my feet. There were reasons for this aside from any stiffness of heart or fist-virtues which might be mine. I have said that I was by disposition as taciturn as a tree, and this wondrous gift of silence earned me the name of wisdom, I was looked upon as one whose depth was rival to the ocean’s. Stronger still, as the argument by which I rose, was my sobriety. The man who drinks, and whether it be