“Oh, Bunny, I’d hate to leave Helen. She’s really the only woman I ever loved, you know. Course she’s got her prejudices and queer notions like everybody else but she’s really a little queen. She’s been an inspiration to me, too, Bunny. Every time I talk about pulling out of this game when things don’t go just right, she makes me stick it out. I guess I’d have been gone after I cleaned up that first million if it hadn’t been for her.”
“You’d have been better off if you had,” Bunny commented.
“Oh, I don’t know. She’s hot for me to become Secretary of State or Ambassador to England or something like that; and the way things are going it looks like I will be. That is, if I can get out of this fix.”
“If you can get out o’ this jam, Matt, I’ll sure take my hat off to you. An’ I know how you feel about scuttling out and leaving her. I had a broad like that once in Harlem. ’Twas through her I got that job in th’ bank. She was crazy about me, Boy, until she caught me two-timin’. Then she tried to shoot me.
“Squaws are funny that way,” Bunny continued, philosophically. “Since I’ve been white I’ve found out they’re all the same, white or black. Kipling was right. They’ll fight to get you, fight to keep you and fight you when they catch you playin’ around. But th’ kinda woman that won’t fight for a man ain’t worth havin’.”
“So you think I ought to pull out, eh Bunny?” asked the worried Matthew, returning to the subject.
“Well, what I’d suggest is this:” his plump friend advised, “about time you think Helen’s gonna be confined, get together as much cash as you can and keep your plane ready. Then, when the baby’s born, go to her, tell her everything an’ offer to take her away with you. If she won’t go, you beat it; if she will, why everything’s hotsy totsy.” Bunny extended his soft pink hands expressively.
“Well, that sounds pretty good, Bunny.”
“It’s your best bet, Big Boy,” said his friend and secretary.
Two days before election the situation was unchanged. There was joy in the Democratic camp, gloom among the Republicans. For the first time in American history it seemed that money was not going to decide an election. The propagandists and publicity men of the Democrats had so played upon the fears and prejudices of the public that even the bulk of Jews and Catholics were wavering and many had been won over to the support of a candidate who had denounced them but a few months before. In this they were but running true to form, however, as they had usually been on the side of white supremacy in the old days when there was a Negro population observable to the eye. The Republicans sought to dig up some scandal against Givens and Snobbcraft but were dissuaded by their Committee on Strategy which feared to set so dangerous a precedent. There were also politicians in their ranks who were guilty of adulteries, drunkenness and grafting.
The Republicans, Goosie and Gump, and the Democrats, Givens and Snobbcraft, had ended their swings around the country and were resting from their labors. There were parades in every city and country town. Minor orators beat the lectern from the Atlantic to the Pacific extolling the imaginary virtues of the candidates of the party that hired them. Dr. Crookman was burned a hundred times in effigy. Several Lying-In hospitals were attacked. Two hundred citizens who knew nothing about either candidate were arrested for fighting over which was the better man.
The air was electric with expectancy. People stood around in knots. Small boys scattered leaflets on ten million doorsteps. Police were on the alert to suppress disorder, except what they created.
Arthur Snobbcraft, jovial and confident that he would soon assume a position befitting a member of one of the First Families of Virginia, was holding a brilliant pre-election party in his palatial residence. Strolling in and out amongst his guests, the master of the house accepted their premature congratulations in good humor. It was fine to hear oneself already addressed as Mr. Vice-President.
The tall English butler hastily edged his way through the throng surrounding the President of the Anglo-Saxon Association and whispered, “Dr. Buggerie is in the study upstairs. He says he must see you at once; that it is very, very important.”
Puzzled, Snobbcraft went up to find out what in the world could be the trouble. As he entered, the massive statistician was striding back and forth, mopping his brow, his eyes starting from his head, a sheaf of typewritten sheets trembling in his hand.
“What’s wrong, Buggerie?” asked Snobbcraft, perturbed.
“Everything! Everything!” shrilled the statistician.
“Be specific, please.”
“Well,” shaking the sheaf of papers in Snobbcraft’s face, “we can’t release any of this stuff! It’s too damaging! It’s too inclusive! We’ll have to suppress it, Snobbcraft. You hear me? We musn’t let anyone get hold of it.” The big man’s flabby jowls worked excitedly.
“What do you mean?” snarled the F.F.V. “Do you mean to tell me that all of that money and work is wasted?”
“That’s exactly what I mean,” squeaked Buggerie. “It would be suicidal to publish it.”
“Why? Get down to brass tacks, man, for God’s sake. You get my goat.”
“Now listen here, Snobbcraft,” replied the statistician soberly, dropping heavily into a chair. “Sit down and listen to me. I started this investigation on the theory that the data gathered would prove that around twenty million people, mostly of the lower classes were of Negro ancestry, recent and remote, while about half that number would be of uncertain or unknown ancestry.”
“Well, what have you found?” insisted Snobbcraft, impatiently.
“I have found,” continued Buggerie, “that over half the population has no record of its ancestry beyond five generations!”
“That’s fine!” chortled Snobbcraft. “I’ve always maintained that there were only
