CHAPTER V – THE BATTLE OF THE BALLOTS
BIG KENNEDY’S commands concerning the Tin Whistles taught me that lurking somewhere in the election situation he smelled peril to himself. Commonly, while his methods might be a wide shot to the left of the lawful, they were never violent. He must feel himself hard pressed to call for fist and club. He lived at present cross-purposes with sundry high spirits of the general organization; perhaps a word was abroad for his disaster and he had heard some sigh of it. This would be nothing wonderful; coarse as he seemed fibered, Big Kennedy had spun his web throughout the ward as close-meshed as any spider, and any fluttering proof of treason was certain to be caught in it.
The election, while the office at local bay came to be no weightier than that of Alderman, was of moment to Big Kennedy. Defeat would mean his eclipse, and might even spell his death of politics. To lose the Alderman was to let fall the reins of ward direction. The Alderman and his turtle-devouring fellows cracked the whip over the police whom they appointed or dismissed, and the police were a ballot-engine not to be resisted. He who held the Alderman, held the police; and he who had the police, carried victory between his hands.
Doubtless it was some inner-circle treachery which Big Kennedy apprehended. The regular opposition, while numerous and carrying on its muster rolls the best respectability of the ward, lacked of that organization which was the ridgepole of Big Kennedy’s supremacies. It straggled, and was mob-like in its movements; and while, as I’ve written, it showed strong in numbers, it was no more to be collected or fashioned into any telling force for political effort than a flock of grazing sheep. If there were to come nothing before him more formidable than the regular opposition, Big Kennedy would go over it like a train of cars and ask no aid of shoulder-hitters. Such innocent ones might stand three deep about a ballot-box, and yet Big Kennedy would take from it what count of votes he chose and they be none the wiser. It would come to no more than cheating a child at cards.
The open opposition to Big Kennedy was made up of divers misfit elements. At its head, as a sort of captain by courtesy, flourished that reputable peppery old gentleman who aforetime took my part against Sheeny Joe. A bit in love with his own eloquence, and eager for a forum wherein to exercise it, the reputable old gentleman had named himself for Alderman against Big Kennedy’s candidate. As a campaign scheme of vote-getting – for he believed he had but to be heard to convince a listener – the reputable old gentleman engaged himself upon what he termed a house-to-house canvass.
It was the evening of that day whereon Big Kennedy gave me those orders touching the Tin Whistles when the reputable old gentleman paid a visit to Old Mike, that Nestor being as usual on his porch and comforting himself with a pipe. I chanced to be present at the conversation, although I had no word therein; I was much at Old Mike’s knee during those callow days, having an appetite for his counsel.
“Good-evening, sir,” said the reputable old gentleman, taking a chair which Old Mike’s politeness provided, “good-evening, sir. My name is Morton – Mr. Morton of the Morton Bank. I live in Lafayette Place. Incidentally, I am a candidate for the office of Alderman, and I thought I’d take the freedom of a neighbor and a taxpayer and talk with you on that topic of general interest.”
“Why then,” returned Old Mike, with a cynical grin, “I’m th’ daddy of Big Jawn Kennedy, an’ for ye to talk to me would be loike throwin’ away your toime.”
The reputable old gentleman was set aback by the news. Next he took heart of grace.
“For,” he said, turning upon Old Alike a pleasant eye, although just a dash of the patronizing showed in the curve of his brow, “if I should be so fortunate as to explain to you your whole duty of politics, it might influence your son. Your son, I understand, listens greatly to your word.”
“He would be a ba-ad son who didn’t moind his own father,” returned Old Mike. “As to me jooty av politics – it’s th’ same as every other man’s. It’s the jooty av lookin’ out for meself.”
This open-air selfishness as declared by Old Mike rather served to shock the reputable old gentleman.
“And in politics do you think first of yourself?” he asked.
“Not only first, but lasht,” replied Old Mike. “An’ so do you; an’ so does every man.”
“I cannot understand the narrowness of your view,” retorted the reputable old gentleman, somewhat austere and distant. “You are a respectable man; you call yourself a good citizen?”
“Why,” responded Old Mike, for the other’s remark concluded with a rising inflection like a question, “I get along with th’ p’lice; an’ I get along with th’ priests – what more should a man say!”
“Are you a taxpayer?”
“I have th’ house,” responded Old Mike, with a smile.
The reputable old gentleman considered the other dubiously. Evidently he didn’t regard Old Mike’s one-story cottage as all that might be desired in the way of credentials. Still he pushed on.
“Have you given much attention to political economy?” This with an erudite cough. “Have you made politics a study?”
“From me cradle,” returned Old Mike. “Every Irishman does. I knew so much about politics before I was twinty-one, th’ British Government would have transhported me av I’d stayed in Dublin.”
“I should think,” said the reputable old gentleman, with a look of one who had found something to stand on, “that if you ran from tyranny in Ireland, you would refuse here to submit to the tyranny of Tammany Hall. If you couldn’t abide a Queen, how can you now put up with a Boss?”
“I didn’t run from th’ Queen, I ran from th’ laws,” said Old Mike. “As for the Boss – everything that succeeds has a Boss. The President’s a boss; the Pope’s a boss; Stewart’s a boss in his store down in City Hall Park. That’s right; everything that succeeds has a boss. Nothing is strong enough to stand the mishtakes av more than one man. Ireland would have been free th’ long cinturies ago if she’d only had a boss.”
“But do you call it good citizenship,” demanded the reputable old gentleman, not a trifle nettled by Old Mike’s hard-shell philosophy of state; “do you call it good citizenship to take your orders from a boss? You are loyal to Tammany before you are loyal to the City?”
“Shure!” returned Old Mike, puffing the puffs of him who is undisturbed. “Do ye ever pick up a hand in a game av ca-ards?” The reputable old gentleman seemed properly disgusted. “There you be then! City Government is but a game; so’s all government, Shure, it’s as if you an’ me were playin’ a game av ca-ards, this politics; your party is your hand, an’ Tammany is my hand. In a game of ca-ards, which are ye loyal to, is it your hand or the game? Man, it’s your hand av coorse! By the same token! I am loyal to Tammany Hall.”
That closed the discussion; the reputable old gentleman went his way, and one might tell by his face that the question to assail him was whether he had been in a verbal encounter with a Bedlamite or an Anarchist. He did not recognize me, nor was I sorry. I liked the reputable old gentleman because of that other day, and would not have had him discover me in what he so plainly felt to be dangerous company.
“He’s a mighty ignorant man,” said Old Mike, pointing after the reputable old gentleman with the stem of his pipe. “What this country has mosht to fear is th’ ignorance av th’ rich.”
It stood perhaps ten of the clock on the morning of election day when, on word sent me, I waited on Big Kennedy in his barroom. When he had drawn me into his sanctum at the rear, he, as was his custom, came pointedly to the purpose.
“There’s a fight bein’ made on me,” he said. “They’ve put out a lot of money on the quiet among my own people,