"I don't see how there can be," said Mr. Slater. "But what's all this work for?"
"Well," said Alvord, "we've got to keep up the organization, and so we poll the town. It gives some men employment for a few days that would be sore if they didn't get it. Then we have to send out the pièce de resistance for keg parties of evenings. The way the petitions come in for kegs is surprising. A man calls and says his name's Pat Burke, or Karl Schmidt, and that they've organized a club for the study of public questions, meeting every night at Jones' Coke Ovens or Webber's Chicken House, and they expect to have up the mayoralty question for debate to-night—only he generally calls it the 'morality' question—and could we send them a barrel of beer? We know that there's only a corporal's guard, mostly aliens, but we send 'em a pony. Another puts up a spiel that he's been spending his own money electioneering for Brassfield—he never had over fifty cents in the world, but he's spent forty dollars—and he can't stand the financial strain any longer. He's palpitating with love for Brassfield. He knows where there's twenty-five votes he can get, if he can have say ten dollars for booze—he'll leave it entirely to us. We know he's a fake, of course, but we give him a V. We've got to spend Brass's roll somehow."
"Where's he keeping himself?" asked Slater. "I haven't seen him since Saturday. Isn't he out shaking hands?"
"No," was the answer. "He'd rather buy what he wants, and not do any canvassing. It isn't necessary, anyhow. That supper we arranged for before he was put up will bring him into contact with some of the strongest lines of influence, and will finish the reconciliation with Edgington. Then Mrs. Pumphrey's reception and some other affairs will be all the publicity we'll need. No noise for ours, anyhow. The gum-shoe is our emblem, and we don't let our right hand know what our left wing is driving at. 'Gene leaves it all to me, and don't ever show up here. That girl business—the strawberry blonde, you know—seems all lost sight of, and there ain't a cloud in the sky."
A clerk entered and informed Alvord that a man named Amidon wanted to speak to him at the telephone.
"Another debating society wants irrigating, I s'pose," said he. "Hello! This is headquarters… Yes, it's Alvord speaking to you.… Oh, is it you, Brass? They said it was a man named Amidon. Wire's crossed, I s'pose. Worst telephone service I ever saw. All right, go ahead."
Here followed a long pause broken occasionally by "yes," and "I know," and "no," from Alvord. At last, in tones of amazement, he broke forth in a storm of protest.
"What! Publish a platform?" he shouted. "Are you crazy? No, I most emphatically don't think so. Why—now listen a moment, 'Gene,—I've got the best still hunt framed up you ever saw. We're winning in a walk.… Well, if you want to make your position clear, I know I can trust you to make your manifesto the right thing. But mind, I advise against it!… Yes, sure, as many things as you want to talk about, old man.… Yes, I've heard about the idea; but never saw it indorsed by any practical people.… Yes.… No. No!… No! … I tell you NO!… Why, you know we've spent sums that we couldn't possibly publish. What have you been drinking, 'Gene? Here, damn you, this is all a josh! Come down here and I'll buy.… What's that? You really want to publish a schedule of your election expenses? Well, I'll keep the schedule, and you can print 'em if you want to. Come up to headquarters, and I'll show 'em to you. Good-by!"
Alvord hung up the receiver, and went back to his inner office.
"By George, Slater," said he, "Brassfield is absolutely the most deceptive josher I ever saw. He had me going just now by pretending that he was about to publish a platform of principles, and a statement of campaign disbursements. So blooming solemn it gave me the shivers for a minute. List of disbursements: think of it, Slater! And a platform, in our kind of politics!"