Sammy hooted the suggestion, and Sara said nothing more for a while. But she had set Sammy thinking. She always did that.
In fine, Sara Andrews became indispensable to the Honorable Sammy Scott, and he knew that she was. He would have liked to kiss and cuddle her now and then when they sat closeted together in the den which she had transformed into an impressive, comfortable, and singularly official office. She was always so cool and clean with her slim white hands and perfect clothes. But all she ever allowed was a little pat on the shoulder and an increase in salary. Now and then she accepted jewelry and indicated clearly just what she wanted.
Then for a while Sammy half made up his mind to marry her, and he was about sure she would accept. But he was a little afraid. She was too cold and hard. He had no mind to embrace a cake of ice even if it was well groomed and sleek.
“No,” said Sammy to himself and to his friends and even to Sara in his expansive moments, after a good cocktail, “no, I’m not a marrying man.”
Sara was neither a prude nor a flirt. She simply had a good intellect without moral scruples and a clear idea of the communal and social value of virginity, respectability, and good clothes. She saved her money carefully and soon had a respectable bank account and some excellent bonds.
Sammy was born in Mississippi the year that Hayes was elected. He had little education but could talk good English and made a rattling public speech. With Sara’s coaching he even attempted something more than ordinary political hokum and on one or two public occasions lately had been commended; even the Tribune called him a man of “real information in current events.” Sara accordingly bought magazines and read papers carefully. She wrote out his more elaborate speeches; he committed them to his remarkable memory in an hour or so.
Why then should Sammy marry Sara? He had her brains and skill, and nobody could outbid him in salary. Of that he was sure. Why spoil the loyalty of a first-class secretary for the doubtful love of a wife? Then, too, he rather liked the hovering game. He came to his office and his letters with a zest. He discovered the use of letters even in politics. Before Sara’s day there was a typewriting machine in Sammy’s office, but it was seldom used. Previous clerks had been poor stenographers, and Sammy could not dictate. Besides, why write? Sara showed him why. He touched her finger tips; he brought her flowers and told her all his political secrets. She had no lovers and no prospective lovers. Time enough to marry her if he found he must. Meantime love was cheap in Chicago and secretaries scarce, and, in fine, “I’m not a marrying man,” repeated the Honorable Sammy.
Sara smiled coolly and continued:
“I think I see something for us in the Towns case.”
Sammy frowned. “Better not touch it,” he said. “Bolsheviks are unpopular, especially with railroads. And when it comes to niggers blowing up white folks—well, my advice is, drop it!”
So the matter dropped for a week. Then Sara quietly returned to it: “Listen, Sammy”—Sara was quite informal when they were alone in the sanctum—“I think I see a scoop.” Sammy listened. “This Matthew Towns—”
“What Matthew Towns?”
“The man they sent to Joliet.”
“Oh! I thought you’d dropped that.”
“No, I’ve just really begun to take it up. This Towns is unusual, intelligent, educated, plucky.”
“How do you know?”
“I saw him during the trial, and since then I’ve been down to Joliet.”
“Humph!” said Sammy, lighting his third cigar.
“He is a man that would never forget a service. With such a man added to your machine you might land in Congress.”
Sammy laid his cigar down and sat up.
“I keep telling you, Sammy, you’ve got to be something more than the ordinary colored Chicago politician before you can take the next step. You’ve got to be popular among respectable people.”
“Respectable, hell!” remarked Sammy.
“Precisely,” said Sara; “the hell of machine politics has got to be made to look respectable for ordinary consumption. Now you need something to jack you up in popular opinion. Something that will at once appeal to Negro race pride and not scare off the white folks who want to do political business with you. Our weakness as Negro politicians is that we have never been able to get the church people and the young educated men of ability into our game.”
“Hypocrites and asses!”
“Quite so, but you’ll notice these hypocrites, asses, good lawyers, fine engineers, and pious ministers are all grist to the white man’s political machine. He puts forward and sticks into office educated and honest men of ability who can do things, and he only asks that they won’t be too damned good and honest to support his main interests in a crisis. Moreover, either we’ll get the pious crowd and the educated youngsters in the machine, or some fine day they’ll smash it.
“Sammy, have some imagination! Your methods appeal to the same crowd in the same old way. Meantime new crowds are pushing in and old crowds are changing and they want new ways—they are caught by new gags; makes no difference whether they are better or worse than the old—facts are facts, and the fact is that your political methods are not appealing to or holding the younger crowd. Now here’s bait for them, and big bait too. If I am not much mistaken, Towns is a find. For instance: ‘The Honorable Sammy Scott secures the release of Towns. Towns, a self-sacrificing hero, now looms as a race martyr. Towns says that he owes all to the Honorable Sammy!’ ”
“Fine,” mocked Sammy, “and niggers wild! But how about the white folks? ‘Sam Scott, the black politician, makes a jail delivery of the criminal who tried to wreck the Louisville & Nashville Railway
