What was that Indian doing there on the stage? Especially when he represented aristocracy, at least if what he said about the Princess was to be believed. “Or is it that they are on to me?” thought Sammy. “Is the Princess interfering or not?” Then suddenly he saw a possibility. The Princess or her friends might want Matthew nominated for Congress, but nominated on this radical platform. Good, so did he. Oh, boy! So did he. He got hold of the young colored man and walked away. They had a long conversation about the platform of the radicals and about putting this platform up to Matthew Towns and insisting that he stand on it. Also, Sammy lent the young man twenty-five dollars and told him to come to see him again.
XX
It was late when Sammy got back to his office, after midnight, in fact. As he rushed in hurriedly he saw to his astonishment that Sara Towns was sitting in the outer room. A number of his cronies and henchmen were grouped about, staring, laughing, and smoking. Sara was elaborately ignoring them. She had arranged herself quite becomingly in the best chair with her trim legs in evidence, the light falling right for her costume and not too strongly on her face. The fact was that her face showed some recent signs of wear, despite the beauty parlors. Sammy stopped, swore softly under his breath, and glared. What did it mean? thought Sammy rapidly. Surrender or attack? But he quickly recovered his poise and soon was his smiling, debonair self.
“May I see you a few moments alone?” asked Sara.
“Sure! Excuse me, boys, ladies first.”
They went into the inner sanctum and drove out some more of Sammy’s lieutenants. Sara closed the door and looked around the inner office with disgust.
“My, but you’re dirty here!”
Sammy apologized. “It ain’t exactly as clean as it was in your day,” he grinned. She dusted a chair, arranged her skirt and tilted her hat properly, looking into the mirror opposite. Sammy waited and lighted another cigar.
“Sammy, I came to suggest that we join forces again.”
Sammy looked innocent, but did some quick calculations. Aha! he knew that combination wouldn’t last. Wonder what broke first?
“Well, I don’t know,” he drawled finally. “You broke it up yourself, you remember.”
“Yes, I did. You see, I thought at the time you were going to nominate Doolittle for congressman.”
“Yes,” said Sammy. “And I still am.”
“No, you’re not,” answered Sara. “He just died.”
Sammy dropped his cigar. He fumbled for it and got to his feet. Then he sat down again limply.
“Well, I’ll be God damned,” he remarked and grabbed the telephone.
As a matter of fact, Sara had left the house and rushed to Republican headquarters before Doolittle was actually dead. Mr. Graham had, of course, been warned of Doolittle’s sudden illness, but he had not heard of his death for the simple reason that it had not yet taken place. When, therefore, this self-possessed, gray-eyed little woman came in and announced Doolittle’s death, Graham did not believe it. Five minutes later it was confirmed on the phone. But still the thing looked uncanny, because Sara had only been there five minutes and must have announced the death at exactly the minute it actually took place. But she had been quite matter-of-fact and had gone right to business.
“Can’t we get together?” she had said. “Under the circumstances you cannot nominate a white man now. You have no excuse for doing it after your past promises. Then, too, you can’t nominate Sammy Scott. He is too unpopular, thanks to you. Even if you try to nominate him, Matthew Towns can beat him in the primary. If you buy up the primary vote with a big slush fund, as Sammy plans, Towns, with the support of the Liberals and perhaps the Democrats, together with the bolting Negroes, can be elected.”
The chairman had sneered in his confusion: “Negroes don’t bolt.”
“Not usually,” Sara replied, “but they may this time. In fact,” she said, “I think they will.”
In his own mind the chairman was afraid she was right.
“Why not nominate Towns?” she asked.
“Well,” said the chairman, sparring for time, “first there is Sammy; and secondly, there is the question as to what Towns will do in Congress.”
“He will promise to do anything you say,” said Sara. “And I am going to see Sammy now.” Thus she came and told Sammy the news.
Sammy struggled at the phone. The operator was evidently asleep, but he got through to Graham at last. Sure enough, Doolittle was dead! Sammy stared into the instrument. It certainly looked bad for him. Here he had got the most important news of the campaign from headquarters through Sara. Very well. Evidently he must tie up with Sara again. In such an alliance he had everything to gain and nothing to lose, As his political partner, at least she could not continue to attack him. The matter of the nomination would not be settled until the primary was held in April. He had twelve days to work in. He had seen a president made in less time.
Sammy put down the telephone and turned to Sara with a smile, but underneath that smile was grim determination, and Sara, of course, knew it. He was going to fight to the last ditch, but he extended his hand with the most disarming of smiles.
“All right, partner,” he said, “we’ll start again. Now what’s your plan?”
“My plan is,” said Sara coolly, “to have you work with me for the nomination of Matthew to Congress.”
“Where do I come in?” said Sammy.
“You come in at the head of a united machine with a large campaign fund.”
“That wasn’t the old plan,” said Sammy.
“No, it wasn’t,” answered Sara, “but who broke up the old plan?”
“Graham tried to,” said Sammy, “but God didn’t let him.”
“True,” answered Sara, “and naturally somebody has got to pay for
