“Oh, just the usual complications. There’s nothing to interest you in them.”
“Everything,” she maintained ardently.
Banneker caught his breath. Had she given him her lips, it could hardly have meant more—perhaps not meant so much as this tranquil assumption of her right to share in the major concerns of his life.
“If you’ve been reading the paper,” he began, and waited for her silent nod before going on, “you know our attitude toward organized labor.”
“Yes. You are for it when it is right and not always against it when it is wrong.”
“One can’t split hairs in a matter of editorial policy. I’ve made The Patriot practically the mouthpiece of labor in this city; much more so than the official organ, which has no influence and a small following. Just now I’m specially anxious to hold them in line for the mayoralty campaign. We’ve got to elect Robert Laird. Otherwise we’ll have such an orgy of graft and rottenness as the city has never seen.”
“Isn’t the labor element for Laird?”
“It isn’t against him, except that he is naturally regarded as a silk-stocking. The difficulty isn’t politics. There’s some new influence in local labor circles that is working against me; against The Patriot. I think it’s a fellow named McClintick, a new man from the West.”
“Perhaps he wants to be bought off.”
“You’re thinking of the old style of labor leader,” returned Banneker. “It isn’t as simple as that. No; from what I hear, he’s a fanatic. And he has great influence.”