PAT BRANAGAN, Democratic boss of Harrison, had said to George Helm, his defeated nominee for circuit judge: “There ain’t goin’ to be no next time—fur you.” He had said this in circumstances of extreme provocation. The young candidate, nominated as a joke, nominated to help the Republican machine roll up a “monumental majority” for Judge Powers, judicial agent of the interests owning both party machines—the young candidate had made a house to house, stump to stump campaign, had exposed Judge Powers, had forced both machines to commit wholesale election frauds to prevent his defeat. But Mr. Branagan’s anger had not been the real cause of his serving notice on the big, homely young lawyer that he would never get another nomination from the Democratic party of the city of Harrison. Mr. Branagan did not conduct his life with his temper. If he had done so, he would not have become boss, but would have remained a crumb-fed private. He had reasons—reasons of sound business sense—for “double crossing” George Helm. The Helm sort of Democrat, attacking corruption, smashing at the Republican machine, rousing the people to suspect and to reflect and to revolt, was a dangerous menace to the Branagan income.
“He’s one of them there damned agitators that’s bad for business,” said Mr. Branagan to his friend and partner, the Republican boss. “Everything’s running quiet and smooth here, and the people’s satisfied. If that fellow had his way, they’d be attendin’ to politics instead of to their jobs.”
“That’s right,” said Reichman. “My people”—meaning the corporations whose political agent he was—“my people understand you didn’t intend to do it. They look to you to get rid of him.” Reichman said “my people” rather than “your people,” because Republican partisans being overwhelmingly in the majority in that district, the interests had him for chief political manager, and dealt with the Democratic boss only through him. If Reichman had been strictly accurate he would not have said “my people,” but “the people”; for the interests are the only people who have not power in politics.
“Helm’s leaving, all right,” said Branagan. “That there campaign of his used up his money. He never had no law business, and he’s smart enough to know he’ll never get none hereabouts, so long as Powers is on the bench. So he’s gone up the State to teach school.”
“Well, that’s the last of him,” said Reichman. “I’m kind of sorry for him, Pat. He’s a damn nice young fellow.”
“Yes—and a mighty good stumper, too.” With a grin, “He landed on your friend the Judge—jaw, solar plexus, kidneys—had him groggy.”
The two bosses laughed uproariously. Then Branagan said: “Yes, George Helm’s a nice boy. But I don’t like him. If he’d a won out, he’d a made it hot for me—and for you, too.”
“But he didn’t,” said Reichman. “And he’s all in. I can think well of the dead.”
“I don’t like him,” growled Branagan. “He fooled me with those crazy red whiskers of his. I knew what he was the first time I saw him after he cut ’em off—that was the day after I put him on the ticket. When a man fools me, he makes me mad.”
“He fooled everybody,” said Reichman soothingly. “And as it has turned out there’s no harm done. The way we made him walk the plank’ll be a warning to any other young smart Alecks there are in these parts, thinking of upsetting things.”