"We don't laugh now," said Choate gravely. There was even warning in his voice. "Not since Weedie and his like have told the working class it owns the earth."
"And doesn't it?"
"Yes. In numbers. It can vote itself right into destruction—which is what it's doing."
"And Weedie wants to be mayor."
"God knows what he wants. Mayor, and then governor and—I wouldn't undertake to say where Weedie'd be willing to stop. Not short of an ambassadorship."
"Choate," said Jeffrey cheerfully, "you're an alarmist."
"Oh, no, I'm not. A man like Weedie can get anywhere, because he's no scruples and he can rake in mere numbers to back him. And it's all right. This is a democracy. If the majority of the people want a demagogue to rule over them, they've a perfect right to go to the devil their own way."
"But where's he get his infernal influence? Weedie Moore!"
"He gets it by telling every man what the man wants to hear. He gets hold of the ignorant alien, and tells him he is a king in his own right. He tells him Weedie'll get him shorter and shorter hours, and make him a present of the machinery he runs—or let him break it—and the poor devil believes him. Weedie has told him that's the kind of a country this is. And nobody else is taking the trouble to tell him anything else."
"Well, for God's sake, why don't they?"