Mr. Green looked at her curiously. Finally, as he arose, he shook hands with her and said:
“I am glad you came to me.”
Sara was a little exhausted when she reached home, but she still had some letters to write. The maid said that the telephone had rung and that some Mr. Amos would call her later. Sara sat down by her well-ordered desk and inserted a new pen-point. Soon the telephone rang. Mr. Amos’ voice came over the wire:
“Mr. Doolittle is some better, but still in bed.”
Sara looked at the clock. It was four. She ordered dinner and went back to her writing. The hours passed slowly. At half-past five Matthew came in, and they ate silently at six. While they were eating the telephone rang again.
“Mr. Doolittle has gone out for a short drive. He is better, but far from well.”
They finished dinner. Matthew stood about restlessly a while, smoking. Then with a muttered word he went out. Sara sat down beside the telephone and waited. The messages came at intervals, each shorter than the other.
“Mr. Doolittle has returned.”
“He has taken a chill.”
“The physicians are working over him.”
“He is sinking.”
Eight, nine, and ten o’clock chimed on Sara’s gilt desk clock, and then:
“Congressman Doolittle is dying.”
Sara waited no longer. It was March 20. The primary election was to take place April 8. She took a taxi for Republican headquarters.
XIX
Sammy’s campaign was progressing. Its progress was not altogether satisfactory, but Sammy was encouraged. Most of the best colored newspapers had been “seen” and were acting satisfactorily. The Conservator had one week a strong defense of the “Grand Old Man and Friend of Our Race, the Honorable Calvin Doolittle!” The next week, it featured a lynching, scored the Democrats, and pointed to Doolittle’s vote on the anti-lynching bill. The Lash, when Sara refused its last exorbitant demand for cash, started a series of scathing attacks on the white trade unions and accused them of being filled with “nigger-haters” and Catholics. Other smaller sheets followed suit, with regrets that Mr. Towns was being misled into opposition to the Republican leaders who had always been friends, etc. Only one paper, The Standard, stood strong for Matthew at a price which Sara could afford; but even that paper avoided all attacks on the Republican Party.
The local clubs and political centers of Sammy’s machine gave every evidence of prosperity, while police interference with gambling and prostitution ceased. The prohibition officials apparently stopped all efforts in the main black belt, and there were wild and ceaseless rumors that the Klan was back of a widespread effort to beat the Republicans.
Only the women stood strong. And so strong did they stand under Sara’s astute leadership and marshaling care that Sammy was still worried. They were difficult to reach. Sluggers could not break up their meetings. They could easily out-gossip Sammy’s sensation-mongers, and against their hold on the churches, the colored newspapers availed nothing. It remained true, therefore, after two months’ campaign, that the great majority of Negro voters were still apparently opposed to Sammy and strongly in favor of Matthew’s nomination. Nevertheless, with time and money, Sammy was sure he could win. The trouble was, time was pressing. Only two weeks was left before the primary elections.
Reflecting on all this, Sammy Scott after dinner one day took a stroll, smoking and greeting his friends. He dropped in at some of the clubs and had a word of advice or of information. He took drinks in a couple of cabarets; watched a little gambling. As he sat in one of the resorts, he listened to the talk of a young black radical. The fellow was explaining at length what Negroes ought to demand in Wages and conditions of labor, how they ought to get into the trade unions, and how they were welcomed by unions like that of the Box-Makers, Sammy sidled over to him. He struck Sammy as the sort of man who might carry on a useful propaganda among some of the colored voters and strengthen the demands made on Matthew to take so radical a position that the Republicans could not accept him.
Sammy talked with him and finally invited him to supper. He was undoubtedly hungry. Then he invited Sammy to come with him to a meeting of the Box-Makers. They went west to that great district where the black belt fades into the white workingmen’s belt. In a dingy crowded hall, a number of people were congregated. They were discussing the demands of the Box-Makers, and Sammy listened at the door.
“How many of us,” yelled one man, “make as much as fifteen dollars a week, and how can we live on that?”
“Yes,” added a woman, “how can we live, even if we women work too? We can make only five or six dollars, and out of work a third of the time.”
“Oh, you got it easy even at that. You ought to see where we work, down in damp and unventilated cellars. No porters to keep the shops and the washrooms clean; the stink and gloom and dirt all about us.”
“In my shop we never get sunlight a day in the year.”
Another one broke in. “And we’re working twelve or thirteen hours a day with cleanup on Sunday. It ain’t human, and we won’t stand it no longer.”
Sammy edged in and sat down. Pretty soon the speakers gathered on the stage—the young colored man whom he had met, another colored man whom he did not at first recognize, and several white organizers and delegates. There were long Speeches and demands and fiery threats, but Sammy waited because he wanted to talk to that young fellow again. When the meeting was over, the young man came down accompanied by the other colored man, and Sammy noted
