“That’s where the dough comes in. Now see here, I’ve got a proposition from the traction crowd. They want to ward off municipal ownership and get a new franchise citywide with consolidation. They’re going to offer a five-cent car fare and reversion to the city in forty-nine years, and they’re paying high for support. They’re going to control the nomination in most districts.”
“I’ll vote against municipal ownership any time,” said Matthew.
Sammy was at once relieved and yet troubled anew. He had an idea that Matthew would get squeamish over this and would thus lose the nomination, That would force Corruthers in. Sammy still leaned toward Corruthers. But, on the other hand, Corruthers would be sure to do some fool trick even if he were elected, and that or his defeat might ruin Sammy’s own plans for Congress next year. He was glad Matthew was tractable, and at the same time he suddenly grew suspicious. Suppose Matthew went to the legislature and made a ripping record? He might himself dare think of Congress. But no—Sara was pledged to Sammy’s plan for Congress.
“All right!” said Sammy noisily.
“But look here, Sammy,” said Matthew. “Things are getting pretty loose and free down in my district. Casey has opened a new gambling den, and there’s a lake of liquor; three policy wheels are running. The soliciting on the streets is open; it isn’t safe for a working girl after dark.”
“Well, ain’t they payin’ up prompt?”
“Yes—but—”
“Gettin’ squeamish?” sneered Sammy. My God! Was the fool going to cut off the main graft and try to depend on white corporations?
“No—I’m not, but the reformers are. We’re just bidding for interference at this rate.”
“Hell,” said Sammy. “It’ll be whorehouses and not Sunday Schools that’ll send you to Springfield, if you go.” Matthew frowned.
Sara intervened. “I’ll see that things are toned down a bit. Sammy will never learn that big business pays better than crime. I’m glad you’re going to vote straight on the traction bill.”
Matthew still frowned. They both had misunderstood him—curiously. They suspected him of mawkish sentimentality—a conscience against gambling, liquor, and prostitution. Nothing of the sort! He had buried all sentiment, down, down, deep down. He was angry at being even suspected. Why was he angry? Was it because he felt the surge of that old bounding, silly self that once believed and hoped and dreamed—that dead soul, turning slowly and twisting in its grave? No, no, not that—never. He simply meant to warn Sammy that a district too wide open defeated itself and invited outside interference; it cut off political graft; gamblers were cheating gamblers; the liquor on sale was poison; prostitutes were approaching the wrong people—and, well—surely a girl ought to have the right to choose between work and prostitution, and she ought not to be shanghaied.
And then Sara. She assumed too much. If he had the beginning of the unrest of a new conscience—and he had not—it was over these big corporations. He began to see them from behind and underneath. A five-cent fare was a tremendous issue to thousands. The driblets of perpetual tax on light and air and movement meant both poverty and millions. Surely the interests could pay better than gamblers and prostitutes, but was the graft as honest? Was he going on as unquestioningly? He had promised to vote against municipal ownership quickly and easily. Voters were too stupid or too careless to run big business. Municipal ownership, therefore, would only mean corporation control one degree removed and concealed from public view by election bribery. And after all, traction was not the real question. Superpower was that, and he talked his thought aloud to Sara, half-consciously:
“Oh—traction? Sure—that’s only camouflage anyway. Back of it is the furnishing of electric power, cornering the waterfalls of America; paying nothing for the right of endless and limitless taxation, and then at last ‘financing’ the whole thing for a thousand millions and unloading it on the public! That’s the real graft. I am going to think a long time over those bills!”
What did he mean by “thinking a long time”? He did not know what he meant. Neither did Sara. But she knew very clearly what she meant. She was silent and pursed her lips. She was already in close understanding with certain quiet and well-dressed gentlemen who represented Public Service and were reaching out toward Superpower. They had long been distributing money in the Negro districts, but their policy was to encourage rivalry and jealousy between the black bosses and thus make them ineffective. This kept payments down. Sara had arranged for Sammy to make these payments, while the corporations dealt only with him. Also she had raised the price and promised to deliver four votes in the legislature and three in the Board of Aldermen. Finally, she had just arranged to have Sammy’s personal representative occupy an office in the elegant suite of the big corporation attorney who advised Public Service and on his payroll as a personal link between Sammy and the big Public Service czar. It was the biggest single deal she had pulled off, and she hadn’t yet told Sammy. The selection of that link called for much thought.
X
The house was finished complete with new and shining furniture, each piece standing exactly where it should. Matthew had particularly wanted a fireplace with real logs, He was a little ashamed to confess how much he wanted it. It was a sort of obsession. As long as he could remember, burning wood had meant home to him. Sara said a fireplace was both dirty and dangerous. She had an electric log put in. Matthew hated that log with perfect hatred.
The pictures and ornaments, too, he did not like, and at last, one day, he went downtown and bought a painting which he had long coveted. It was a copy of a master—cleverly and daringly done with a flame of color and a woman’s long and naked body. It talked to Matthew of endless strife,
