They were expecting the Honorable Sammy to breeze in any moment. They formed a curious troika, these three: Sammy, the horse of guidance in the shafts, was the expert on the underworld—the “boys,” liquor, prostitution, and the corresponding parts of the white world. He was the practical politician; he saw that votes were properly counted, jobs distributed where they would do his organization most good; and he handled the funds. Sara was intellectually a step higher; she knew the business interests of the city and what they could and would pay for privilege. She was in touch with public service organizations and chambers of commerce and knew all about the leading banks and corporations. Her letters and advice did tricks and brought a growing stream of gold of which Sammy had never before dreamed. Alas, too, it brought interference with some of his practical plans and promises which annoyed him, although he usually yielded under pressure.
Matthew was quite a different element. On the one hand he knew the life of his section of the Chicago black world as no one else. He had not artificially extracted either the good or the evil for study and use—he took it all in with one comprehensive glance and thus could tell what church and school and labor thought and did, as well as the mind of the underworld. At the other end of the scale was his knowledge of national and international movements; his ability to read and digest reports and recent literature was an invaluable guide for Sara and corrective for Sammy.
Much of all this report and book business was Greek to Sammy. Sammy never read anything beyond the headlines of newspapers, and they had to be over an inch high to get his undivided attention. Gossip from high and low sources brought him his main information. Sara read the newspapers, and Matthew the magazines and books. Thus Sammy’s political bark skimmed before the golden winds with rare speed and accuracy.
Sammy came in, and they got immediately to business.
“I’m stumped by this legislature business,” growled Sammy. “Smith picked a hell of a time to die. Still, p’raps it was best. There was a lot of stink over him anyhow. Now here comes a special election, and if we ain’t careful it’ll tear the machine to pieces. Every big nigger in Chicago wants the job. We need a careful man or hell’ll be to pay. I promised the next opening to Corruthers. He expects it and he’s earned it; Corruthers will raise hell and spill the beans if I fail him.”
“Smith was a fool,” said Sara, “and Corruthers is a bag of wind when he’s sober and an idiot when he’s drunk, which is his usual condition. We’ve got to can that type. We’ve got to have a man of brains and knowledge in the legislature this fall, or we’ll lose out. We’re in fair way to make ‘Negro’ and ‘grafter’ synonymous in Illinois office-holding. It won’t do. There’s some big legislation coming up—streetcar consolidation and superpower. Here’s a chance, Sammy, to put in our own man, and a man of high type, instead of boosting a rival boss and courting exposure for bribery.”
“Well, can’t we tell Corruthers how to act and vote? He ought to stay put.”
“No. There are some things that can’t be told. Corruthers is a born petty grafter. When he sees a dollar, he goes blind to everything else. He has no imagination nor restraint. We can’t be at his shoulder at every turn; he’d be sure to sell out for the flash of a hundred-dollar bill any time and lose a thousand and get in jail. Then, too, if he should make good, next year Boss Corruthers would be fighting Boss Scott.”
Sammy swore. “If I ditch him, I’ll lose this district.”
“With a strong nomination there’s a chance,” said Matthew.
Sara glanced at him and added: “Especially if I organize the women.”
Sammy tore at his hair: “Don’t touch ’em,” he cried. “Let em alone! My God! What’d I do with a bunch of skirts dippin’ in? Ain’t we got ’em gagged like they ought to be? What’s the matter with the State Colored Women’s Republican Clubs? And the Cook County organization, with their chairman sitting in on the County Central and women on each ward committee?”
But Sara was obdurate. “Don’t be a fool, Sammy. You know these women are nothing but ‘me-too’s,’ or worse, for the men. I’m going to have a new organization, independent of the ward bosses and loyal to us. I’m going to call it the Chicago Colored Woman’s Council—no, it isn’t going to be called Republican, Democratic, or Socialist; just colored. I’m going to make it a real political force independent of the men. The women are in politics already, although they don’t know it, and somebody is going to tell them soon. Why not us? And see that they vote right?”
“The white women’s clubs are trying to bring the colored clubs in line for a stand on the streetcar situation and new working-women laws,” added Matthew.
Sammy brooded. “I don’t like it. It’s dangerous. Once give ’em real power, and who can hold them?”
“I can.”
“Yes, and who’ll hold you?”
Sara did not answer, and Sammy switched back to the main matter.
“I s’pose we’ve got to hunt another man for Smith’s place. I see a fight ahead.”
Matthew’s guests left, and he discovered that he had forgotten to get his laundry for now the second week. He stepped down to the Chinaman’s for his shirts and a chat.
Then came a shock, as when an uneasy sleeper, drugged with weariness, hears the alarm of dawn. The Chinaman liked him and was grateful for protection against the police and rowdies. He liked the Chinaman for his industry, his cleanliness, his quiet philosophy of life. Once he tried a pipe of opium there, but it
