The Walking Delegate

"Nothin'," answered Pete. "But say, Tom, that letter was certainly hot stuff! I've heard some o' the boys talkin' about it. They think it's great. It's bringin' a lot o' them out."

"That's good."

"An' we're goin' to win, sure."

Tom nodded. "If Foley don't work some of his tricks."

"Oh, we'll look out for that," said Pete confidently.

Promptly at seven o'clock Hogan unlocked the door. The men began to mount the stairway. As each man came to the door Hogan examined his membership card, and, if it showed the holder to be in good standing, admitted him. Jackson then handed him a ballot, on which the names of all the candidates were printed in a vertical row, and he walked to one of the tables and made crosses before the names of the men for whom he desired to vote.

Five minutes after the door had been opened there were thirty or forty men in the room, an equal number of each party, Foley among them. Jake, who was chief teller, rose at the center table on the platform to discharge the formality of offering the ballot-box for inspection. He unlocked the box, which was about twelve inches square, and performing a slow arc presented the open side to the eyes of the tellers and the waiting members. The box was empty.

"All right?" he asked.

"Sure," said the men carelessly. The tellers nodded.

Foley began the telling of a yarn, and was straightway the center of the group of voters. In the meantime Jake locked the box and started to carry it to its appointed place on a table at one end of the platform, to reach which he had to pass through the narrow space between the wall and the chair-backs of the other tellers. As he brushed through this alley, Tom, whose eyes had not left him, saw the ballot-box turn so that its slot was toward the wall, and glimpsed a quick motion of Jake's hand from a pocket toward the slot – a motion wholly of the wrist. He sprang after the chief teller and seized his hand.

"You don't work that game!" he cried.

Foley's story snapped off. His hearers pivoted to face the disturbance.

Jake turned about. "What game?"

"Open your hand!" Tom demanded.

Jake elevated his big fist, then opened it. It held nothing. He laughed derisively, and set the box down in its place. A jeering shout rose from Foley's crowd.

For an instant Tom was taken aback. Then he stepped quickly to the table and gave the box a light shake. He triumphantly raised it on high and shook it violently. From it there came an unmistakable rattle.

"This's how Foley'd win!" he cried to the crowd.

Jake, his derision suddenly changed to fury, would have struck Tom in another instant, for all his wits were in his fists; but the incisive voice of Foley sounded out: "A clever trick, Keating."

"How's that?" asked several men.

"A trick to cast suspicion on us," Foley answered quietly. "Keating put 'em in there himself."

Tom stared at him, then turned sharply upon Jake. "Give me the key. I'll show who those ballots are for."

Jake, not understanding, but taking his cue from Foley, handed over the key. Tom unlocked the box, and took out a handful of tightly-folded ballots. He opened several of them and held them up to the crowd. The crosses were before the Foley candidates.

"Of course I put 'em in!" Tom said sarcastically, looking squarely at Foley.

"O' course youse did," Foley returned calmly. "To cast suspicion on us. It's a clever trick, but it's what I call dirty politics."

Tom made no reply. His eyes had caught a slight bulge in the pocket of Jake's coat from which he had before seen Jake's hand emerge ballot-laden. He lunged suddenly toward the chief teller, and thrust a hand into the pocket. There was a struggle of an instant; the crowd saw Tom's hand come out of the pocket filled with packets of paper; then Tom broke loose. It all happened so quickly that the crowd had no time to move. The tellers rose just in time to lay hands upon Jake, who was hurling himself upon Tom in animal fury.

Tom held the ballots out toward Foley. They were bound in packets half an inch thick by narrow bands of papers which were obviously to be snapped as the packet was thrust into the slot of the box. "I suppose you'll say now, Buck Foley, that I put these in Henderson's pocket!"

For once Foley was at a loss. Part of the crowd cursed and hissed him. His own men looked at him expectantly, but the trickery was too apparent for his wits to be of avail. He glared straight ahead, rolling his cigar from side to side of his mouth.

Tom tossed the ballots into the open box. "Enough votes there already to elect Foley. Now I demand another teller instead of that man." He jerked his head contemptuously toward Jake.

Foley's composure was with him again. "Anything to please youse, Tom. I guess nobody's got a kick again' Connelly. Connelly, youse take Jake's place."

As the exchange was being made the Foleyites regarded their leader dubiously; not out of disapproval of his trickery, but because his attempted jugglery had failed. Foley had recourse again to his confidence-compelling glance – eyes narrowed and full of mystery. "It's only seven-thirty, boys!" he said in an impressive whisper, and turned and went out. Jake glowered at Tom and followed him.

Tom transferred the ballots from the box to his pockets, locked the box, turned over the key to the tellers, and was resuming his seat when he saw a man of disordered dress at the edge of the platform, who had been anxiously awaiting the end of this episode, beckoning him. Tom quickly stepped to his side. "What's the matter?"

"Hell's broke loose downstairs, Tom," said the man. "Come down."

"Look out for any more tricks," Tom called to Pete, and hurried out. The stairway was held from top to bottom by a line of Foley men. Foley supporters were marching up, trading rough jests with these guardsmen; but not a single man of his was on the stairs. He saw one of his men start up, and receive a shove in the chest that sent him upon his back. A laugh rose from the line. Tom's fists knotted and his eyes filled with fire. The head guardsman tried to seize him, and got one of the fists in the face.

"Look out, you – !" He swore mightily at the line, and plunged downward past the guards, who were held back by a momentary awe. The man below rose to his feet, hotly charged, and was sent staggering again. Tom, descending, caught the assailant by the collar, and with a powerful jerk sent him sprawling upon the floor. He turned fiercely upon the line. But before he could even speak, half of it charged down upon him, overbore him and swept him through the open door into the street. Then they melted away from him and returned to their posts.

Tom, bruised and dazed, would have followed the men back through the doorway, but his eyes came upon a new scene. On his either hand in the street, which was weakly illumined by windows and corner lights, several scuffles were going on, six or seven in each; groups of Foley men were blocking the way of his supporters, and blows and high words were passing; farther away he could dimly see his men standing about in hesitant knots – having not the reckless courage to attempt passage through such a rowdy sea.

The policeman was trying to quell one of the scuffles with his club. Tom saw it twisted from his hand. Murphy drew his revolver. The club sent it spinning. He turned and walked quickly out of the street.

All this Tom saw in two glances. The man beside him swore. "Send for the police, Tom. Nothing else'll save us." His voice barely rose above the cries and oaths.

"It won't do, Smith. We'd never hear the last of it."

And yet Tom realized, with instant quickness, the hopelessness of the situation. Against Foley's organized ruffianism, holding hall and street, his unorganized supporters, standing on the outskirts, could do nothing. There was but one thing to be done – to get to his men, organize them in some way, wait till their number had grown, and then march in a body to the ballot-box.

Ten seconds after his discharge into the street Tom was springing away on this errand, when out of the tail of his eye he saw Foley come to the door and glance about. He wheeled and strode up to the walking delegate.

"Is this your only way of winning an election?" he cried hotly.

"Well! well! They're mixin' it up a bit, ain't they," Foley drawled, looking over Tom's head. "That's too bad!"

"Don't try any of your stage business on me! Stop this fighting!"

"What could I do?" Foley asked deprecatingly. "If I tried, I'd only get my nut cracked." And he turned back into the hall.

"Come on!" Tom cried to Smith; and together they plunged eastward, in which direction were the largest number of Tom's friends. Before they had gone a dozen paces they were engulfed in the fray. Several of his men swept in from the outskirts to his support; more Foley men rushed into the conflict; the fight that had before been waged in skirmishes was now a general engagement. For a space that seemed an hour to Tom, but that in reality was no more than its quarter, it was struggle at the top of his strength. He warded off blows. He stung under fists. He struck out at dim faces. He swayed fiercely in grappling arms. He sent men down. He went down again and again himself. And oaths were gasped and shouted, and deep-lunged cries battered riotously against the street's high walls… And so it was all around him – a writhing, striking, kicking, swearing whirlpool of men, over whose fierce turbulence fell the dusky light of bar-room and tenement windows.

After a time, when his breath was coming in gasps, and his strength was well-nigh gone, he saw the vindictive face of Jake Henderson, with the bar-room's light across it, draw nearer and nearer through the struggling mob. If Jake should reach him, spent as he was – He saw his limp, outstretched body as in a vision.

But Jake's vengeance did not then fall. Tom heard a cry go up and run through the crowd: "Police! Police!" In an instant the whirlpool half calmed. The cry brought to their feet the two men who had last borne him down. Tom scrambled up, saw the mob untangle itself into individuals, and saw, turning the corner, a squad of policemen, clubs drawn, Murphy marching at the captain's side.

The captain drew his squad up beside the doorway of the hall, and himself mounted the two steps. "If there's any more o' this rough house, I'll run in every one o' you!" he shouted, shaking his club at the men.

The Foleyites laughed, and defiance buzzed among them, but they knew the better part of valor. It was a Foley principle to observe the law when the law is observing you.

Five minutes later the captain's threat was made even more potent for order by the appearance of the reserves from another precinct; and in a little while still another squad leaped from clanging patrol wagons, making in all fifty policemen that had answered Murphy's call. Twenty of these were posted in the stairway, and the rest were placed on guard in the street.

A new order came from the bar-room, and Foley's men withdrew to beyond the limits of police influence and intercepted the men coming to vote, using blandishment and threats, and leading some into the bar-room to be further convinced.

Tom, who stood outside watching the restoration of order, now started back to the hall. On the way he glanced through the side door into the bar-room. It was heavy with smoke, and at the bar was a crowd, with Foley as its center. "I don't know what youse think about Keating callin' in the police," he was saying, "but youse can bet I know what Buck Foley thinks! A man that'll turn the police on his own union!" And then as a fresh group of men were led into the room: "Step right up to the counter, boys, an' have your measure taken for a drink. I've bought out the place, an' am givin' it away. Me an' Carnegie's tryin' to die poor."

Tom mounted to the hall with a secret satisfaction in the protection of the broad-chested bluecoats that now held the stairway. A fusillade of remarks from the men marking their ballots greeted his entrance, but he passed up to the platform without making answers.

Pete's mouth fell agape at sight of him. "Hello! You look like you been ticklin' a grizzly under the chin!"

Tom noted the relishing grins of the Foley tellers. "The trouble downstairs is all over. I'll tell you all about it after awhile," he said shortly; and sat down just behind Pete to watch the voting.

Up to this time the balloting had been light. But now the hall began to fill, and the voting proceeded rapidly – and orderly, too, thanks to the policemen on stairway and in street. Tom, his clothes "lookin' like he tried to take 'em off without unbuttonin'," as a Foley teller whispered, his battered hat down over his eyes, sat tilted against the wall scanning every man that filed past the box. As man after man had his membership card stamped "voted," and dropped in his ballot, Tom's excitement rose, for he recognized the majority of the men that marched by as of his following.

At nine o'clock Pete leaned far back in his chair. "Lookin' great, ain't it?" he whispered.

"If it only keeps up like this." That it might not was Tom's great fear now.

"Oh, it will, don't you worry."

The line of voters that marched by, and by, bore out Pete's prediction, as Tom's counting eyes saw. He had the wild exultation and throbbing weakness of the man who is on the verge of success. But the possibility of failure, the cause of his weakness, became less and less as time ticked on and the votes dropped into the ballot box. His enthusiasm grew. Dozens of plans flashed through his head. But his eyes never left that string of men who were deciding his fate and that of the union.

At half past ten Tom was certain of his election. Pete leaned back and gripped his hand. "It's a cinch, Tom. It's a shame to take the money," he whispered.

Tom acquiesced in Pete's conviction with a jerk of his head, and watched the passing line, now grown thin and slow, drop in their ballots, his certainty growing doubly sure.

Fifteen minutes later Foley entered the hall, whispered a moment with Hogan at the door, a moment with Connelly, and then went out again. Tom thought he saw anxiety showing through Foley's ease of manner, and to him it was an advance taste of triumph.

Tom wished eleven o'clock had come and the door was locked. The minutes passed with such exhausting slowness. A straggling voter dropped in his ballot – and another straggler – and another. Tom looked at his watch. Two minutes had passed since Foley's visit. Another straggling voter. And then four men appeared in a body at the hall door, all apparently the worse for Foley's hospitality. Tom saw the foremost present his card. Hogan glanced at it, and handed it back. "You can't vote that card; it's expired," Tom heard him say.

"What's that?" demanded the man, threateningly.

"The card's expired, I said! You can't vote it! Get out!"

"I can't vote it, hey!" There was an oath, a blow – a surprisingly light blow to produce such an effect, so it seemed to Tom – and Hogan staggered back and went to the floor. There was a scuffle; the tables on which lay the ballots toppled over, and the ballots went fluttering. By this time Tom reached the door, policemen had rushed in and settled the scuffle, and the four men were being led from the room.

Hogan was unhurt, but Jackson was so dazed from a blow that Tom had to put another man in his place.

The minutes moved toward eleven with slow, ticking steps. Two stragglers … at long intervals. At a few minutes before eleven the exhausting monotony was enlivened by the entrance of eight men, singing boisterously and jostling each other in alcoholic jollity. They marked their ballots and staggered in a group to the ballot-box. Two tried to deposit their ballots at once.

"Leave me alone, will youse!" cried one, with an oath, and struck at the other.

The ballot-box slipped across to the edge of the table. Connelly, who sat just behind the box, made no move for its safety. "Hey, stop that!" cried Pete and sprang across to seize it. But he was too late. The one blow struck, the eight were all instantly delivering blows, and pushing and swearing. The box was knocked forward upon the floor, and the eight sprawled pell-mell upon it.

Tom and the tellers sprang from behind the tables upon the scuffling heap, and several policemen rushed in from the hallway. The men, once dragged apart, subsided and gave no trouble. They were allowed to drop their ballots in the box, now back in its place on the table, and were then led out in quietness by the officers.

Pete turned about, struck with a sudden fear. "I wonder if that was a trick?" he whispered.

Tom's face was pale. The same fear had come to him. "I wonder!"

In another five minutes the door was locked and the tellers were counting the ballots. Among the first hundred there were perhaps a score that bore no mark except a cross before Foley's name. Pete looked again at Tom. With both fear had been replaced by certainty.

"The box's been stuffed!" Pete whispered.

Tom nodded.

His only hope now was that not enough false ballots had been got into the box to carry the election. But as the count proceeded, this hope left him. And the end was equal to his worst fears. The count stood: for walking delegate, Foley 976, Keating 763; for president, Keating 763, Foley's man 595; all the other Foley candidates won by a slight margin. The apparent inconsistencies of this count Tom readily understood even in the first wild minutes. Foley's running ahead of his ticket was to be explained on the ground that the brief time permitted of a cross being put before his name alone on the false ballots; his own election to the unimportant presidency, and the failure of his other candidates, was evidently caused by several of his followers splitting their tickets and voting for the minor Foley candidates.

As the count had proceeded Tom had exploded more than once, and Pete had made lurid use of his gift. When Connelly read off the final results Tom exploded again.

"It's an infernal steal!" he shouted.

"Even if it is, what can we do?" returned Connelly.

Words ran high. But Tom quickly saw the uselessness of protests and accusations at this time. His great desire now was to take his heat and disappointment out into the street; and so he gave evasive answers to Pete and Barry, who wanted to talk it over, and made his way out of the hall alone.

Cheers and laughter were ascending from the bar-room. As he was half-way down the stairs the door of the saloon opened, and Foley came out and started up, followed by a number of men. Among them Tom saw several of the drunken group that had upset the ballot-box; and he also saw that they probably had not been more sober in years.

"Why, hello, Tom!" Foley cried out on sight of him. "D'youse hear the election returns?"

Tom looked hard at Foley's face with its leering geniality, and he was almost overmastered by a desire to hurl himself upon Foley and annihilate him. "You infernal thief!" he burst out.

Foley sidled toward him across the broad step. "I'll pass that by. I can afford to, for youse're about wiped out. I guess youse've had enough."

"Enough?" cried Tom. "I've just begun!"

With that he brushed by Foley and passed through the door out into the street.

Chapter XIII

THE DAY AFTER

The distance to Tom's home was half a hundred blocks, but he chose to walk. Anger, disappointment, and underlying these the hopeless sense of being barred from his trade, all demanded the sympathy of physical exertion – and, too, there was the inevitable meeting with his wife. Walking would give him an hour before that.

It was after one when he opened the hall door and stepped into his flat. Through the dining-room he could see the gas in the sitting-room was turned down to a point, and could see Maggie lying on the couch, a flowered comforter drawn over her. He guessed she had stayed up to wait for his report. He listened. In the night's dead stillness he could faintly hear her breath come deep and regular. Seizing at the chance of postponing the scene, he cautiously closed the hall door, and, sitting down on a chair beside it, removed his shoes. He crossed on tiptoe toward their bedroom, but its door betrayed him by a creak. He turned quickly about. There was Maggie, propped up on one arm, the comforter thrown back.

She looked at him for a space without speaking. Through all his other feelings Tom had a sense that he made anything but a brave figure, standing in his stocking feet, his shoes in one hand, hat and overcoat on.

"Well?" she demanded at length.

Tom returned her fixed gaze, and made no reply to her all-inclusive query.

Her hands gripped her covering. She gave a gasp. Then she threw back the comforter and slipped to her feet.

"I understand!" she said. "Everything! I knew it! O-o-h!" There were more resentment and recrimination packed into that prolonged "oh" than she could have put into an hour's upbraiding.

Tom kept himself in hand. He knew the futility of explanation, but he explained. "I won, fairly. But Foley robbed me. He stuffed the ballot-box."

"It makes no difference how you lost! You lost! That's what I've got to face. You know I didn't want you to go into this. I knew you couldn't win. I knew Foley was full of tricks. But you went in. You lost wages. You threw away money —our money! And what have you got to show for it all?"

Tom let her words pass in silence. On his long walk he had made up his mind to bear her fury quietly.

"Oh, you!" she cried through clenched teeth, stamping a bare foot on the floor. "You do what you please, and I suffer for it. You wouldn't take my advice. And now you're out of a job and can't get one in your trade. How are we to live? Tell me that, Tom Keating? How are we to live?"

Only the word he had passed with himself enabled Tom to hold himself in after this outburst. "I'll find work."

"Find work! A hod-carrier! Oh, my God!"

She turned and flung herself at full length upon the couch, and lay there sobbing, her hands passionately gripping the comforter.

Tom silently watched the workings of her passion for a moment. He realized the measure of right on her side, and his sense of justice made his spirit unbend. "If we have to live close, it'll only be for a time," he said.

"Oh, my God!" she moaned.

He grimly turned and went into the bedroom. After a while he came out again. She had drawn the comforter over her, but her irregular breathing told him she was still awake.

"Aren't you coming to bed?" he asked.

She made no answer, and he went back. For half an hour he tossed about. Then he came into the sitting-room again. Her breath was coming quietly and regularly. He sat down and gazed at her handsome face for a long, long time, with misty, wondering thoughts. Then he rose with a deep-drawn sigh, took part of the covering from the bed, and spread it over her sleeping figure.

He tossed about long before he fell into a restless sleep. It was early when he awoke. He looked into the sitting-room. Maggie was still sleeping. He quickly dressed himself in his best suit (the one he had had on the night before was beyond further wearing), noting with surprise that his face bore few marks of conflict, and stole quietly out.

Tom's disappointment and anger were too fresh to allow him to put his mind upon plans for the future. All day he wandered aimlessly about, talking over the events of the previous night with such of his friends as chance put in his path. Late in the afternoon he met Pete and Barry, who had been looking for work since morning. They sat down in a saloon and talked about the election till dinner time. It was decided that Tom should protest the election and appeal to the union – a move they all agreed had little promise. Tom found a soothing gratification in Pete's verbal handling of the affair; there was an ease, a broadness, a completeness, to Pete's profanity that left nothing to be desired; so that Tom was prompted to remark, with a half smile: "If there was a professorship of your kind of English over at Columbia University, Pete, you'd never have to put on overalls again."

Tom had breakfasted in a restaurant, and lunched in a restaurant, and after Pete and Barry left he had dinner in one. It was a cheap and meager meal; with his uncertain future he felt it wise to begin to count every cent. Afterwards he walked about the streets till eight, bringing up at Ruth's boarding-house. The colored maid who answered his ring brought back the message: "Miss Arnold says will you please come up."