It seemed to him that the glorious moment for which his whole life had been shaped, and toward which every energy and desire in his spirit had been turned, was now here.
As that incredible knowledge came to him, a fury, wild, savage, wordless, pulsed through his blood and filled him with such a swelling and exultant joy as he has never known before. He felt the savage tongueless cry of pain and joy swell up and thicken in his throat, he felt a rending and illimitable power in him as if he could twist steel between his fingers, and he felt an almost uncontrollable impulse to yell into the faces of the men with a demonic glee.
Instead he just sat down quickly with an abrupt, half-defiant movement, lit his cigarette, and spoke to one of the men quickly and diffidently, saying:
“Hello, Mr. Flood.”
For a moment, the man thus addressed said nothing, but sat staring at the boy stupidly with an expression of heavy surprise. He was a well-dressed but bloated-looking man in his fifties whose gross figure even in repose betrayed a gouty tendency. His face, which had the satiny rosy texture, veinous and tender, that alcoholism and a daily massage can give, was brutally coarse and sensual, but was given a disturbing and decisive character by his bulging yellow eyeballs and the gross lewd mouth which, because of several large buck teeth whose discoloured surfaces protruded under the upper lip, seemed always to be half opened and half smiling. And it was not a pleasant smile. It was a smile, faint, unmistakably sensual, and rather sly. It seemed to come from some huge choking secret glee and there was in it a quality that was jubilantly obscene.
For a moment more Mr. Flood stared through his bulging eyes at the boy who had just spoken to him, with an air of comical and stupid surprise. Then amiably, but with a puzzled undertone, he said gruffly:
“Hello. Oh, hello, son! How are you?”
And after looking at the boy a moment longer, he turned his attention to the other men again.
It was at just that season of the year when two events which are dear to the speculations of the American had absorbed the public interest. These events were baseball and politics, and at that moment both were thrillingly imminent. The annual baseball contests for “the championship of the world” were to begin within another day or two, and the national campaign for the election of the American president, which would be held in another month, was moving daily to its furious apogee of speeches, accusations, dire predictions, and impassioned promises. Both events gave the average American a thrill of pleasurable anticipation: his approach to both was essentially the same. It was the desire of a man to see a good show, to “take sides” vigorously in an exciting contest— to be amused, involved as an interested spectator is involved, but not to be too deeply troubled or concerned by the result.
It was just natural, therefore, that at the moment when the boy entered the smoking compartment of the train, the conversation of the men assembled there should be chiefly concerned with these twin sports. As he came in, there was a hum of voices, a sound of argument, and then he could see the hearty red-faced man—the politician—shaking his head dubiously and heard him say, with a protesting laugh:
“Ah-h, I don’t know about that. From what I hear it’s just the other way. I was talking to a man from Tennessee the other day, and from what he says, Cox is gaining everywhere. He said that a month ago he wouldn’t have given two cents for his chances, but now he thinks he’s going to carry the State.”
“It’s going to be close,” another conceded. “He may win yet—but it looks to me as if he’s got a hard uphill fight on his hands. Tennessee always polls a big Republican vote—in some of those mountain districts they vote two to one Republican—and this year it looks as if they’re all set for a change. . . . What do you think about it, Emmet?” he said, appealing to the small, swarthy and important-looking little man, who sat there, swinging his short little legs and chewing on a fat cigar with an air of wise reflection.
“Well,” that person answered slowly after a thoughtful moment, taking his cigar in his pudgy fingers and looking at it studiously— “it may be—it may be—that the country’s ready for a change—now don’t misunderstand me,” he went on hastily, as if eager to set their perturbed minds at rest—“I’m not saying that I want to see Harding elected—that I’m going to cast my vote for him—as you know, I’m a party man and have voted the Democratic ticket ever since I came of age—but,” again he paused, frowned importantly at his cigar, and spoke with careful deliberation—“it may just be that we are due for a change this year—that the country is ready for it—that we need it. . . . Now, I supported Wilson twice, in 1912, when he got elected to his first term of office, and again in
1916—”
“The time he kept us out of war,” some one said ironically.
“And,” the little man said deliberately—“if he was running again— if he was well enough to run—if he wanted a third term—(although I’m against the third term in principle),” he amended hastily again—“why, I believe I’d go ahead and vote for him. That’s how much I think of him. But,” again he paused, and meditated his chewed cigar profoundly—“it may be we’re due now for a change. Wilson was a great president—in my opinion, the greatest man we’ve had since Lincoln—I don’t believe any other man could have done the job he did as well as he—BUT,” the word came out impressively, “the job is done! The war is over—”
“Yes, thank God!” some one murmured softly but fervently.
“The people want to forget about the war—they want to forget all their sacrifices and suffering—” said this little man who had sacrificed and suffered nothing—“they are looking forward to better times. . . . And in my opinion,” he spoke again with his air of slow deliberation, important carefulness—“in my opinion, better times are before us. I think that after this election we are going to witness one of the greatest periods of national development and expansion that the world has ever known. . . . Why, we haven’t begun yet! We haven’t even started!” he cried suddenly, with a note of passionate conviction in his voice—“Do you realize that this country is only a little more than a hundred years old? Why, we haven’t even begun to show what we can do yet! We’ve spent all that time in getting started—in building cities— settling the country—building railroads and factories—developing the means of production—making the tools with which to work. . . . The resources of this country are scarcely tapped as yet. And in my opinion we are on the eve of the greatest period of prosperity and growth the world has ever known. . . . Look at Altamont, for example,” he went on cogently. “Ten years ago, in 1910, the census gave us a population of 18,000. . . . Now, we have thirty, according to government figures, and that doesn’t begin to take the whole thing in: it doesn’t take in Biltburn, Lunn’s Cove, Beaver Hills, Sunset Parkway—a dozen other places I can mention, all really part of the town but not included in the census figures. . . . If all the suburbs were included we’d have a population of at least 40,000 inhabitants—”
“I’d call it nearer fifty,” said another patriot.
“And within another ten years we’ll go to seventy-five, perhaps a hundred. . . . Why, that town hasn’t begun to grow yet!” he said, bending his short body forward in his enthusiasm and tapping his fat knee—“It has been less than eight years since we established the Citizen’s Bank and Trust Company with a capital of $25,000 and capital stock at $100 a share. . . . Now,” he paused a moment, and looked around him, his swarthy face packed with strong conviction— “NOW, we have a capital of $2,000,000—deposits totalling more than $18,000,000—and as for the stock—” for a moment the little man’s swarthy face was touched with a faint complacent smile, he said smugly, “I don’t know exactly how much stock you gentlemen may hold among you, but if any of you wants to sell what he has, I will pay you $1000 a share—here and now,” he slapped a fat small hand down upon a fat small knee—“here and now! for every share you own.”
And he looked at them steadily for a moment with an air of challenge.
“Not for mine!” the florid heavy man cried heartily. “No, sir! I’ve only got ten shares, Emmet, but you can’t buy it from me at any price! I won’t sell!”
And the swarthy little man, pleased by the answer, smiled complacently about him before he spoke again.
“Yes, sir!” he said. “That’s the way it is. And the thing that’s begun to happen at home already is going to happen everywhere—all over the country. From now on you’re going to see a period of rising prices and high wages—increased production, a boom in real estate, stocks, investments, business of all kinds—rising values everywhere such as you never saw before and never hoped to see.”
“And where is it going to stop?”
“Stop!” the swarthy little man spoke almost curtly, and then barked, “It’s not going to stop! Not during OUR lifetime, anyway! I tell you, man, we’re just beginning! How can there be any talk of stopping when we haven’t STARTED yet? . . . There’s been nothing like it before,” he cried with passionate earnestness— “nothing to match it in the history of the world. We’ve had wars, booms, good times, hard times, slumps, periods of prosperity—but, I tell you, gentlemen!” and here he smote himself sharply on the knee and his voice rose with the strength of an unshakable conviction—“this thing is different! We have reached a stage in our development that no other country in the world has ever known— that was never dreamed of before—a stage that is beyond booms, depressions, good times, hard times—anything—”
“You mean that after this we shall never be affected by those things?”
“Yes, sir!” he cried emphatically. “I mean just that! I mean that we have learned the causes for each of those conditions. I mean that we have learned how to check them, how to control them. I mean that so far as we are concerned they don’t EXIST any more!” His voice had become almost shrill with the force of his persuasive argument, and suddenly whipping a sheaf of envelopes, tied with a rubber band, out of his inner pocket, and gripping a stub of pencil in his stubby hand, he crossed his short fat legs with an energetic movement, bent forward poised above the envelopes, and said quietly but urgently:
“See here, now!—I’d like to show you a few figures! My business, as you know, is to look after other people’s money—your money, the town’s money, everybody’s money—I’ve got to keep my fingers on the pulse of business at every moment of the day—my business is to KNOW—to KNOW—and let me tell you something,” he said quietly, looking directly in their eyes, “I DO know,—so pay attention just a moment while I show these figures to you.”
And for some moments he spoke quietly, persuasively, his dark features packed with an energy of powerful conviction, while he rapidly jotted figures down upon the backs of the soiled envelopes, and they bent around him—their medicine-man of magic numerals—in an attitude of awed and rapt attentiveness. And when he had finished, there was silence for a moment, save for the rhythmic clack of wheels, the rocketing sound of the great train. Then one of the men, stroking his chin thoughtfully, and with an impressed air, said:
“I see. . . . And you think, then, that in view of these conditions it would be better for the country if Harding is elected.”
The little man’s manner became instantly cautious, non-committal, “conservative”:
“I don’t say that,” he said, shaking his head in a movement of denial—“I only say that whoever gets elected we’re in for a period of unparalleled development. . . . Now both of them are good men— as I say, I shall probably vote for Cox—but you can rest assured,” he spoke deliberately and looked around him in his compelling way— “you can rest assured that no matter which one gets elected the country will be in good hands. There’s no question about that.”
“Yes, sir,” said the florid-faced politician in his amiable and hearty way. “I agree with you. . . . I’m a Democrat myself, both in practice and in principle. I’m going to vote for Cox, but if Harding gets elected I won’t shed any tears over his election. We’ll have to give the Republicans credit for a good deed this time—they couldn’t have made a wiser or a better decision. He has a long and honourable career in the service of his country,”—as he spoke his voice unconsciously took on the sententious ring and lilt of the professional politician—“no breath of scandal has ever touched his name: in public and in private life he has remained as he began—a statesman loyal to the institutions of his country, a husband devoted to his family life, a plain American of simple tastes who loves his neighbours as himself, and prefers the quiet life of a little town, the democracy of the front porch, to the marble arches of the Capitol—so, whatever the result may be,” the orator concluded, “this nation need fear nothing: it has chosen well and wisely in both cases, its future is secure.”
Mr. Flood, during the course of this impassioned flight, had remained ponderously unmoved. In the pause that followed, he sat impassively, his coarse-jowled face and bulging yellowed eyes fixed on the orator in their customary expression of comic stupefaction. Now, breathing hoarsely and stertorously, he coughed chokingly and with an alarming rattling noise into his handkerchief, peered intently at his wadded handkerchief for a moment, and then said coarsely:
“Hell! What all of you are saying is that you are goin’ to vote for Cox but that you hope that Harding wins.”
“No, now, Jim—” the politician, Mr. Candler, said in a protesting tone—“I never said—”
“Yes, you did!” Mr. Flood wheezed bluntly. “You meant it, anyhow, every one of you is sayin’ how he always was a Democrat and what a great man Wilson is, and how he’s goin’ to vote for Cox—and every God-damn one of you is praying that the other feller gets elected. . . . Why? I’ll tell you why,” he wheezed coarsely, “—it’s because we’re sick an’ tired of Woodrow, all of us—we want to put the rollers under him an’ see the last of him! Oh, yes, we are,” he went on brutally as some one started to protest—“we’re tired of Woodrow’s flowery speeches, an’ we’re tired of hearin’ about wars an’ ideals an’ democracy an’ how fine an’ noble we all are an’ ‘Mister won’t you please subscribe?’ We’re tired of hearin’ bunk that doesn’t pay an’ we want to hear some bunk that does—an’ we’re goin’ to vote for the crook that gives it to us. . . . Do you know what we all want—what we’re lookin’ for?” he demanded, glowering brutally around at them. “We want a piece of the breast with lots of gravy—an’ the boy that promises us the most is the one we’re for! . . . Cox! Hell! All of you know Cox has no more chance of getting in than a snowball has in hell. When they get through with him he won’t know whether he was run over by a five-ton truck or chewed up in a sausage mill. . . . Nothing has changed, the world’s no different, we’re just the same as we always were—and I’ve watched ‘em come an’ go for forty years—Blaine, Cleveland, Taft, McKinley, Roosevelt—the whole damned lot of ‘em—an’ what we want from them is just the same: all we can get for ourselves, a free grab with no holts barred, and to hell with the other fellow.”