MR. GOOCH DECLARES HIMSELF
The Republicans of the county in convention a week later went through the formality of nominating a ticket, a heretofore useless procedure attended by vainglorious claims, bombastic oratory, unbridled denunciation and a grim sort of jauntiness that passed for confidence and died as soon as the meeting was over. Ever since the Civil War the party had stoutly and steadfastly put up a ticket and just as regularly had abandoned it to its fate. The candidates themselves, accepting defeat at the outset, took little or no interest in the campaign aside from the slight satisfaction they eked out of seeing their names on the printed ballot. It was, so to speak, like reading one’s own obituary notice—or, as one hardy, perennial office-seeker remarked—attending one’s own funeral and getting back home in time for supper.
But the campaign of 1920 in this hide-bound Democratic stronghold possessed strange, new elements; the under-dog bounced up with surprising animation and showed his teeth, prepared at last to fight for the bone that so long had been denied him. In the first place, the administration at Washington was standing with its back to the wall; it was almost certain to be swept out of power by the resistless force of public opinion. Faint-hearted Republican politicians lost in the depths of Democratic jungles saw light ahead and, rubbing their eyes, started toward it, realizing it was no longer Will-o’-the-wisp or Jack-o’-lantern that led them on. Their eyes glittered, their fingers itched, and they became very strong in the legs. If Harding and Coolidge were to be swept in by the avalanche, why shouldn’t they hang on behind and be sucked into office by the same gigantic wave? In the second place, the Democrats of Applegate County, fat and sluggish after years of plenty, had overslept a little in their security. Too late they awoke to the fact that they had four or five weak spots in their county ticket, and while there was small danger of the normal plurality being wiped out at the coming election they were in very grave danger of having it reduced to a humiliating extent.
Mr. Horace Gooch, of Hopkinsville, heretofore a miserly aspirant for legislative honors but persistently denied the distinction for which he was loath to pay, “came across” so handsomely—and so desperately—that the bosses foolishly permitted him to be nominated for the State Senate. The people did not want him; but that made little or no difference to the party leaders; the people had to take him whether they liked him or not. Mr. Gooch’s astonishing contribution to the campaign fund was not to be “passed up” merely because the people didn’t approve of him. It is not good politics to allow the people a voice in such matters. Old Gooch would run behind the rest of the ticket, to be sure, but he would “squeeze through” safely, and that was all that was necessary.
The report that young Oliver Baxter, of Rumley, was being urged to make the race against his uncle caused no uneasiness among the bosses. It was not until after the young man was nominated and actually in the field, that misgivings beset the bosses. Young Baxter was popular in the southern section of the county, he was a war hero, and he was an upstanding figure in a community where the voters were as likely as not to “jump the traces.” And when the emboldened Republican press of the county began to speak of their candidate as a “shark,” there was active and acute dismay. They sent for Mr. Gooch and suggested that it wouldn’t be a bad idea for him to withdraw from the race—on account of his age, or his health.
“But I’m not an old man,” protested Mr. Gooch irascibly, “and I’ve never been sick a day in my life. I’m sixty-four. You wouldn’t call that old, would you?”
No, the chairman wouldn’t call that old, but from what he could gather this was destined to be “a young man’s year.” Young men were in the saddle; you couldn’t shake ’em out.
“Do you mean to tell me,” began Horace, genuinely amazed, “that you think this young whipper-snapper of a nephew of mine is liable to defeat me?”
“Oh, I guess perhaps we can pull you through,” said the chairman, rather unfeelingly.
“My dear sir, we have a safe majority of four thousand votes in this county. Why do you say you ‘guess perhaps’ you can pull me through? If you are joking, I wish to state to you right here and now that I do not approve of jokes. If you are in earnest, all I can say is that you must be crazy. The people of this county want a sound, solid, able business man to represent them in the legislature. They don’t want a young, inexperienced, untried whipper-snapper—”