“I do wish Sammy had stood pat and insisted on the nomination,” said Sara thoughtfully.
“I’ll never forgive him,” said Mr. Amos. “It was sheer lack of backbone and an itching palm.”
“You are a great friend of his, I know.”
“Well,” said Mr. Amos, “I don’t like him as well as I use to, although I know he got me my job. Tell you what, ma’am, I wish your husband could get the nomination.” They talked on. When finally he stood at the front door, Sara was saying:
“I hope, of course, that all will go well, for Doolittle is a deserving old man, but if anything should change in his physical condition I’d like to know it before anybody else, Mr. Amos; and I’m depending on you.” And her dependence was expressed in the shape of a yellow bill which she slipped in Mr. Amos’ hand. He took occasion to examine it under the electric light as he was waiting for the bus. It was a bank note for five hundred dollars. Mr. Amos missed two buses looking at it.
Less than a week later, while Sara was at her desk one morning, about to send out notes for one of her innumerable committee meetings, the telephone rang. The low voice of Mr. Amos came over it:
“Mr. Doolittle has had an attack. He is quite ill.”
She thanked him softly and hung up.
The next morning Sara went down to Republican headquarters, where she used to be well known. She was regarded with considerable interest this morning, but remained unperturbed. She asked for a certain gentleman who was always busy, but Sara wrote a note and sent it in to him with a card. He found time to see her.
“Mr. Graham,” she said, “what do you think of Congressman Doolittle’s health?”
Mr. Graham looked at her sharply, took off his glasses, and polished them carefully, as he continued to look.
“I have every reason to suppose,” he said slowly, “that Mr. Doolittle’s health is excellent.”
“Well, it isn’t,” said Sara.
“I suppose your source of information—” But Sara interrupted him.
“Frankly, Mr. Graham—suppose that Congressman Doolittle should die before the primary election.”
“We’d be in a hell of a muddle,” blurted out Mr. Graham.
“You would,” said Sara. “You could hardly nominate Sammy, because Sammy is very unpopular just now among colored voters.”
“Thanks to you,” said Mr. Graham.
“No, Mr. Graham, thanks to you. Now my husband Mr. Matthew Towns, is both popular and—intelligent.”
“Especially,” added Mr. Graham, “with the Farmer-Labor reformers and the Bolsheviks.”
“Not a bad bunch of votes to bring to the Republican Party just now.”
“Well, any colored candidate would have to bring in something to offset the hullabaloo which the Klan would raise in this town if we nominated a Negro and a—one with your husband’s record, to Congress.”
“Precisely, and I am calculating that the support of the reform groups and the solidarity of the colored vote would much more than offset this and make the election certain.”
“In any case, Mrs. Towns, I take it that your husband has been promised the support of the Farmer-Labor group only on condition that he stand on their platform.”
“He has given them to understand,” said Sara carefully, and with a smile, “that he sympathizes with their ideals.”
“Well,” said Mr. Graham crisply, “that puts him out of the running for the Republican nomination, even in the extremely unlikely event that Mr. Doolittle for any reason should not or could not receive it.”
“I wonder,” said Sara. “You know quite well that the intellectuals in the Farmer-Labor group are bound to support Republican policies up to a certain point. Their financial interests compel them; now it would be good politics for the Republicans to go a step beyond that point in order to attract, by some show of liberality, as large a group as possible of the liberals. Then, having split off their leaders and their thinkers, we might let the rest of the radicals go hang. What I am proposing in fine, Mr. Graham, is this: that the nomination of my husband (in the unlikely event that Mr. Doolittle should not be well enough to accept) might be a piece of farsighted politics on your part and bring you the bulk of the liberal vote, while at the same time paralyzing and splitting up the power of the radicals.”
Mr. Graham fingered his mustache.
“I will not forget this visit, Mrs. Towns,” he said.
Sara walked out; taking a taxi, she quietly slipped over to the Democratic headquarters. She asked to see Mr. Green of Washington.
“Mr. Green?” asked the porter, doubtfully.
“Yes, he is in town temporarily and making his headquarters here. I will not keep him long. Here is my card. I have met him.”
After a while another gentleman came out.
“Mr. Green is only calling at this office. Just what is your business with him?”
“Please tell him that once in Washington he signed a petition for me that helped release Matthew Towns from Joliet. Mr. Towns is my husband and is now running for Congress.”
A few minutes later Sara was closeted with Mr. Green, a high official of the Klan. He looked at her with interest.
“And what can I do for you this time, madam?”
“You remember me?”
“Perfectly.”
“I trust you have not regretted helping me.”
“No.”
“Have you followed Mr. Towns’ career?”
“I know something of it.”
“Well, he may be nominated for Congress by the Republicans, and he may not. If he does not get the nomination, he will run independently on the Farmer-Labor ticket. Any help that the Democrats could give us in such a campaign would greatly impede the Republicans.”
Mr. Green smiled, but Sara proceeded:
“In the unlikely event that he should be nominated by the Republicans I have come to ask you if it would not be possible for you to restrain any anti-Negro campaign against him or any undue reference to his jail sentence. You see, with the Republican and Farmer-Labor support he would probably be elected, and if that election came with
