“Most gangsters die of old age. Or competition. Aint one been hung I can think of the last five-six years. But I see youve no stomach for it. Tell me, Hodge—you Whig or Populist?” The sudden change of subject bewildered me. “Why ... Populist, I guess.”
“Why?”
“Oh ... I don’t know....” I thought of some of the discussions that used to go on among the men around the smithy. “The Whigs’ ‘Property, Protection, Permanent Population’ —what does it mean to me?” “Tell you, boy, means this: Property for the Confederates who own factories here and don’t want to pay taxes. Protection for foreign capital to come in and buy or hire. Permanent Population—cheap native labor. Build up a prosperous employing class.” “Yes, I know. I can’t see how it helps. Ive heard Whigs at home say the money’s bound to seep down from above, but it seems awfully roundabout. And not very efficient.”
He reached over and clapped me lightly on the shoulder. “That’s my boy,” he said. “They can’t fool you.”
I wasnt entirely pleased by his commendation. “And protection means paying more for things than theyre worth.”
“Taint only that, Hodge, it’s a damn lie as well. Whigs never even tried protection when they was in. Didnt dast. Knew the other countries wouldnt let them.”
“As for ‘permanent population’ ... well, those who can’t make a living are going to go on emigrating to prosperous countries. Permanent population means dwindling population if it means anything.”
“Ah,” he said. “You got a head on your shoulders, Hodge. Youre all right; books won’t hurt you. But what about emigrating? Yourself, I mean?”
I shook my head.
He nodded, chewing on a soggy corner of his mustache. “Don’t want to leave the old ship, huh?”