It was further agreed that they would work the farm in partnership, dividing profits equally, and a contract in writing to this effect was signed by them.
Roper now being a property holder, besides being so influential with the Judge, thought he could soar to higher altitudes. By the assistance of Gasbang and a few others, whom he said belonged to his gang, he managed to get himself nominated for Representative to Congress. Bursting with pride, puny Peter started on his way to glory, to stump his district. He would begin at San Bernardino and carry the county by storm, with the force of his eloquence and personal magnetism, he said, with characteristic modesty.
He made speeches at San Pascual, and Poway, and San Bernardo, and Bear Valley, and Julian, but his greatest effort, the achievement that would crown his brow with laurels, that effort he reserved for Los Angeles. Quite a big crowd was marshaled to hear him. He had paid a good deal of money in advertisements so as to collect an audience. He succeeded; a crowd was there ready to make up in quantity what it lacked in quality.
Roper came forward. His face was red as usual, but he seemed sober—he stood straight. He was as loquacious as ever, of course, and talked incessantly for quite a while, making the crowd laugh. After he had all his audience in a laughing mood with his coarse anecdotes and broad jokes, he thought he would capture their votes beyond a doubt if he then and there proved himself—by his own admissions—to be low, the lowest of the lowly—so very low, so very disreputable, that no one could be lower.
“You cannot doubt,” said Peter, “that my sympathies as well as my interests, are with you, the working people, the poor who must work or starve. I have nothing in common with bloated bondholders or pampered monopolists who have enriched themselves with the earnings of the poor. I don't know how I came to be a lawyer. I suppose it happened because I don't like to work. I would rather talk and let others work. [Laughter.] I am a child of the people, and for the people—the poor people I mean. My mother was a cook, a poor cook—poor in pocket I mean. Her cookery may have been rich [laughter], but upon that point I couldn't enlighten you, for I have forgotten the flavor of her dishes. But she was a cook by profession, just as I am a lawyer by profession, and one is as good as the other. [Laughter.] As for my father, of him I know nothing to speak of—literally—[laughter], so the less said on that head, the sooner mended; for if the fact of my being here goes to prove to you that I had a father, that is all the proof I ever had myself.”
Here Peter laughed, but he laughed alone. He thought that a burst of laughter and applause would follow this last shameless, revolting admission, but not a sound was heard. He had overstepped the bounds of decency so far, that even such a crowd as made his audience was silent as if unanimous disgust was beyond utterance. Roper was evidently disconcerted.
“We don't want to be represented in Washington by a fellow who exults in degradation and has no respect for the memory of his mother,” said a loud voice, and the crowd began to disperse.
Soon Peter's native impudence came to his aid and he tried to recommence his discourse. “Look here,” he cried, “where are you going? You ain't going to send my mother to Congress! Did you think I came to ask you to vote for her?” He went on in this coarse, bantering style which had taken so well at first, but in vain. Nobody wanted to hear him now. It seemed as if the ghost of the poor reviled cook had come, like that of Banquo, to frighten off the audience. In a few minutes only about half a dozen of his supporters had been left, and they remained to scold.
“Well,” said one, looking back at the receding crowd, “that cake is all dough, Peter. I hope your mother would have made a better job of it.”
“A delightful dough,” said another; “and his goose is well cooked. I say, Peter, you cooked your goose brown, browner than your mother ever cooked hers, and I bet on it.”