“And perhaps,” whispered Mr. Cadwalader in the rear, “you got damned well paid for it.”
Sara proceeded: “I was wrong and my husband was angry, but I pleaded with him. Since then I have come to a clearer realizaton of the meaning and function of political machines. But I argued then that without the machine, colored people would get no recognition even from respectable and intelligent people; that the machine had elected my husband, and that he owed it support. Finally, he promised to support the bills in loyalty to me, but only on condition that afterward we resign from Sammy Scott’s organization. This we have done.”
There was prolonged appluase. They did not all believe Sara’s explanation, but they were willing to forget the past in the face of this seemingly definite commitment for the future. But Matthew gasped. It was the smoothest, coolest lie he had ever heard, and yet it was so near the truth that he had to rub his own inner eyes. He was literally dumb when members of the committees congratulated this ideal couple and promised to turn the support of the reformers toward Matthew’s independent nomination. Some saw also the wisdom of Sara’s delicate suggestion that this—almost domestic misfortune—be not broadcast yet to the public press, and that it only be intimated in a general way that Mr. Towns’ attitude was on the whole satisfactory.
XVI
There was war in Chicago—silent, bitter war. It was part of the war throughout the whole nation; it was part of the World War. Money was bursting the coffers of the banks—poor people’s savings, rich people’s dividends. It must be invested in order to insure principal and interest for the poor and profits for the rich. It had been invested in the past in European restoration and American industry. But difficulties were appearing—far-off signs of danger which bankers knew. European industry could only pay large dividends if it could sell goods largely in the United States. High tariff walls kept those goods out. American industry could pay large dividends only if it could sell goods abroad or secure monopoly prices at home. To sell goods abroad it must receive Europe’s goods in payment, This meant lower tariff rates. To keep monopoly at home, prices must be kept up by present or higher tariff rates. It was a dilemma, a cruel dilemma, and bankers, investors, captains of industry, scanned the industrial horizon, while poor people shivered from cold and unknown winds.
There was but one hope in the offing which would at once ward off labor troubles by continued high wages and yet maintain the fabulous rate of profit; and that was new monopoly of rich natural resources. Imperial aggressiveness in the West Indies, Mexico, and Africa held possibilities, when public opinion was properly manipulated. But right here in the United States was White Coal! Black coal, oil, and iron were monopolized and threatened with diminishing returns and world competition. But white coal—the harnessing of the vast unused rivers of the nation; monopolizing free water power to produce dear electricity! Quick! Quick! Act silently and swiftly before the public awakes and sees that it is selling something for nothing. Keep Doolittle in Congress. Keep all the Doolittles in Congress. Let the silent war against agitators, radicals, fools, keep up. Hold the tariff citadel a little longer—then let it crash with the old savings gone but the new investments safe and ready to take new advantage of lower wages and less impudent workers. So there was war in Chicago—World War, and the Republican machine of Cook County was fighting in the van. And in the machine Sammy and Sara and Matthew were little cogs.
A Michigan Avenue bus was starting south from Adams Street in early March when two persons, rushing to get on at the same time, collided. Mrs. Beech, president of the Women’s City Club, was a little flustered. She ought to have come in her own car, but she did not want to appear too elegant on this visit. She turned and found herself face to face with Mr. Graham, the chairman of the Republican County Central Committee. They lived in the same North Shore suburb, Hubbard Woods, and had met before.
“I beg your pardon,” said Mr. Graham hastily. “One has to rush so for these ’buses that it is apt to be dangerous.”
Mrs. Beech smiled graciously. She was rather glad to meet Mr. Graham, because she wanted to talk some things out with him. They sat on top and began with the weather and local matters in their suburb. Then Mrs. Beech observed:
“The colored folks are certainly taking the South Side.”
“It is astonishing,” answered Mr. Graham. “What would the ghosts of the old Chicago aristocracy say?”
“Well, it shows progress, I suppose,” said Mrs. Beech.
“I am not so sure about that,” said Mr. Graham. “It shows activity and a certain ruthless pushing forward, but I am a little afraid of results. We have a most difficult political problem here.”
“So I understand; in fact, I am going to a meeting of one of their women’s clubs now.”
“Indeed! Well, I hope we may count on your good offices,” and Mr. Graham smiled. “I don’t mind telling you that we are in trouble in this district. We have got a big Negro vote, well organized under Sammy Scott, of whom perhaps you have heard. Scott and his gang are not easily satisfied. They have been continually raising their demands. First, they wanted money, and indeed they have never got over that; but they demanded money first for what I suspect amounted to direct bribery. This, of course, was coupled with protection for gambling and crime, a deplorable situation, but beyond control. This went on for a while, although the sums handed them from the party coffers were larger and larger. Then they began to want offices, filling appointments as janitors and cleaners at first; then higher and higher until at
