Do women vote in Homeburg? Of course they do. I'd like to see anybody stop them. I don't mean that they vote for President. That is, they won't until next time. It's only the more important elections that they take part in. Oh, I know you folks in the big town think that unless you're voting for governor or for the ringleaders of your city government, the job isn't worth while. But that's where you differ from Homeburg. We men vote for President and get a good deal of fun out of the campaign. It's a favorite masculine amusement, and the women don't interfere with us. But it's not important. I mean it's not important to Homeburg. We stand up all summer and tear our suspender buttons off trying to persuade each other that Homeburg's future depends on who reviews the inaugural parade at Washington; but it isn't so, and we know it.
The really burning question in Homeburg is the make-up of the next school board. That is the election which paralyzes business, splits families, and sours friendships. And let me just convey to you in a few brief words, underscored with red ink, the fact that women vote in the Homeburg school elections. If you want to see real, concentrated politics with tabasco sauce trimmings, go to Homeburg or some other small town which is fond of its school system and watch the women getting out the vote.
Don't waste your time by coming the day before election. Don't even expect to see any excitement in the morning. We don't smear our school election troubles all over the almanac. We have the convulsion quickly and get over it. You could stray into Homeburg on the morning of a school election and not suspect that anything was going on except, perhaps, a general funeral. Absolute quiet reigns. People are attending to business with the usual calm.
You can tell that there is an election on by the little flags stuck out a hundred feet from the engine-house doors, but that's the only way. Inside the judges sit waiting for business about as successfully as a cod fisher on the banks of the Mississippi. Now and then some one strays in and casts a vote. By noon half a dozen are in the ballot box. The nation is safe, the schools are progressing satisfactorily, the ticket is going through without a kick. Even the candidates stop standing around outside peddling their cards, go home to dinner and forget to come back.
Pretty placid, eh? You bet it is. You know all about the calm before the storm and the little cloud the size of the man's hand which comes up about eight bells and does a general chaos business without any advance notices. Well, that cloud in our school elections is impersonated by Mrs. Delia Arbingle, and she usually arrives at the polls about three p.m. with a new ticket, twenty warlike followers, and several thousand assorted snorts of defiance.
That's when the storm breaks—and it's a whole lot bigger than a man's hand by that time. Delia is a mighty plentiful woman physically, and when she gets her war paint on, she's a regular cloudburst. As I say, about three o'clock or thereabouts, we suddenly wake up to the fact that we have a school election in our midst, and that unless we arise as true men and patriots, it will soon be at our throats. How do we find it out? Our women folks tell us. You never saw such devoted women folks, or such determined ones, either. The minute Delia leaves her house with her marauding band in her annual attempt to get the scalp of the high school principal who whipped her oldest son seventeen years ago, the women of Homeburg rise. And we men go and vote.
Now, we're not enthusiastic about voting. We're not afraid of Delia. We've seen her insurge too often. But we go and vote, anyway. We go by request. You've never had your loving wife come in and request you to vote, have you, Jim? Well, you've got something coming. It's a request which you're going to grant. You may not want to, but that has nothing to do with the case. This is about the way it happens in Homeburg: I am sitting in my office. I've got a lot of work on hand, and it's no use to vote, anyway, and, to tell the truth, I had forgotten all about it. Suddenly the telephone bell rings: I answer it. Here's my cross-section of the conversation:
"Hello? Oh, hello!... No, I haven't voted yet.... Pretty busy to-day.... You're coming down?... No, I don't want to vote.—What's the use? It's the same old.... Now, my dear, it's just the same old row. She can't get any.... But I tell you I'm busy. You go on and.... Yes, of course I'm an American citizen, but I don't get a salary for it. I'm trying to earn.... Well, five minutes to cast a useless vote is.... Oh, all right. Anything to please you.... No, I'll not call up Judge Hicks. He's old enough to vote by himself.... Oh, all right.... Now, look here, my dear, I can't ask Fleming to do that. His wife is a friend of Mrs. Arbingle's.... Yes, I can say that, but it would be a threat.... Oh, the schools will run anyway. Now, don't get excited.... All right, doggone it, it'll make a regular fool of me though!... Good-by.
I am mopping my forehead while I say that. I'm going to vote and, what is more, I'm going over to get Judge Hicks, who is a cross old man-eater, and get him to vote, and then I am going to call up Fleming, who would otherwise vote against us, and tell him that if he doesn't support our ticket, our grocery account will go elsewhere. I hate to do that like the mischief. It isn't considered ethical in national elections. But somehow we can't stop and discuss these fine points at 3.15 p.m. with our loving but excited wives. They don't seem to allow it.