The Republican caucus or convention was uneventful. Warrington was nominated for mayor of Herculaneum, with little or no opposition. Everybody expected it. It was, in the phraseology of the day, cut and dried. There was no surprise on the part of the public. Still, Senator Henderson was jubilant; he had nominated his man.
The young candidate's speech, accepting the nomination, was reproduced in full in all the newspapers, whose editorial writers frankly admitted that the speech was one of the best heard in Herculaneum in years. Reporters raked up anecdotes and old photographs; they enlarged upon the history of his early struggles and his ultimate success; and long despatches flashed over the wires. The whole continent was more or less interested in the sudden political ambition of one of its favorite dramatic writers.
It was true that Warrington's vanity was touched. It always touches our vanity to be given something for which we have made no struggle whatever. It was something to be followed by curious newsboys, to be spoken to respectfully by Tom, Dick and Harry, who erstwhile hadn't known of his existence. Warrington was human, and he laughed at his vanity even as it was being gratified.
On the other side the Democrats perfunctorily nominated Donnelly. It was the best they could do, and Donnelly had nothing to learn. And so the fight was on. Donnelly went everywhere; so did Warrington. If Donnelly spoke in the German district, Warrington spoke to the Italians and in their native tongue. Warrington soon learned how to shake hands in the manner of a candidate,—to take the whole hand and squeeze it soundly. The coal-heaver whose hand the dramatist grasped thereupon returned to his friends with the report that the candidate had a good grip, that there was nothing namby-pamby about him, for all his dude clothes. It is the gift of Heaven to win friends and keep them, and Warrington possessed this gift. His good-humored smile, his ready persiflage, his ease in all environments, and his common sense—these were his bucklers. He spoke in dingy halls, on saloon bars, everywhere and anywhere and at all times. It was a great sight to see him lightly mount a bar and expound his politics, his nostrils assailed by cheap tobacco and kerosene lamps. If Donnelly opened a keg of beer, Warrington opened two; if Donnelly gave a picnic, Warrington gave two. And once he presented free matinee tickets to a thousand women. This was a fine stroke of policy. When a man wins a woman to his cause, he wins a valiant champion. Here, then, were a thousand tongues in his service.
His work put enthusiasm into the rank and file of the party, and soon all half-heartedness disappeared and dissensions vanished. He furnished foot-ball suits for the newsboys, torch-light regimentals for the young men's Republican clubs; he spent his own money freely but judiciously; and all the while Donnelly was not far behind. For the first time in the history of local politics the two parties went to work with solid ranks. It promised to be a great campaign. Warrington's influence soon broke the local confines; and the metropolitan newspapers began to prophesy that as Herculaneum went, so would go the state.
Warrington's theatrical manager came up from New York and said he wanted that play at once. The dramatist declared that there would be no play that season. The manager threatened a lawsuit; Warrington remained unmoved. His first duty was to his party; after the first Tuesday in November he would see. This argument found its way to reportorial ears, with the result that it merely added to the young candidate's growing popularity.
It was only occasionally that he saw the Benningtons. His nights were devoted to speech-making or conferences. Sometimes, however, on his way home late at night, he would walk up as far as the old house and look up at the windows; and if he saw a light in Patty's room he would pause for a few minutes, then turn about, Jove limping at his heels. Patty Bennington! The one idyl in his noisy life, the one uplifting influence! He knew that he was not making this fight for clean politics because his heart was in it, but because Patty's was. It is thus that women make the world better, indirectly. Once or twice he had seen Patty in the gallery at mass meetings; but, hurry as he might, he never could get around to the entrance in time to speak to her.
As for McQuade, he knew that between him and that gentleman the war had only begun. He was constantly wondering how McQuade would act; but so far as he could see, McQuade had absolutely nothing to stand on. McQuade would have to tunnel; he could not carry on the war above ground. McQuade would never forgive the result of the dog fight. There had been so much raillery in the newspapers that McQuade became furious whenever it was mentioned. His dog was a professional fighter and had made three kills, and here a "pet" had given him his first licking. It rankled, and none of McQuade's friends dared refer to it. So Warrington remained alert and watchful; it was all he could do.
In more ways than one Herculaneum became widely known. Other cities realized that there was a peculiar strike in progress, upon the outcome of which depended the principles of unionism. Here was an employer who was making preparations to destroy his shops, regardless of financial loss, regardless of public opinion, regardless of everything but his right to employ and discharge whom he willed. Every great employer in the country focused his eye upon Herculaneum; every union leader did likewise. The outcome would mean a kind of revolution.
At the shops the men had placed the usual sentinels around the limits, ready to repel the expected army of non-union workmen. But a day passed, two, three, four; a week, then ten days; a month. Not a single strange man approached the gates. Not one man among them had any information whatever as to the movements of their whilom employer. Scab labor never showed its head above the horizon. The men began to wonder; they began to grow restless. But Morrissy always pacified them with the word "wait."