"What reform man can we get to run in his place?" Maynard asked. "Hell!" Benson said. "We haven’t time to nominate anybody—election is only a week off. I don’t care who’s elected so we put Root out of business." "Well, but," Maynard protested, "we don’t want to throw the influence of the settlement in favor of Tammany Hall." "We don’t need to. There must be some other candidates—Socialist or Prohibition—just so he isn’t a red-light grafter." "There isn’t any Prohibition ticket," I said. "The Socialist candidate is named Lipsky." "All right," said Benson, "we’ll elect Lipsky." Maynard went up in the air. Help elect a Socialist! He did not believe in political assassinations. "Oh, devil!" Benson snapped. "Would you rather see one of these cadet politicians in office than an honest working man? I don’t know who this man Lipsky is, like as not a fool who sees visions. But the Socialists never nominate crooks. What we want is an honest man." Maynard, however, did not believe in community of wives, felt it necessary to protect the sanctity of the home—even at the cost of prostitution. And so he left us. I wish I could remember half the things Benson said about Maynard after he had deserted us. I have seldom seen anything more invigorating than Benson mad. But he did not let his indignation interfere with business. It was far along towards morning, but he set to work at once. He wrote to Lipsky promising to support him, and then began sketching cartoons and posters. One was a picture of Root selling a girl in "parlor clothes" to "The Old Man." Another read: "VOTE FOR LIPSKY if you have a daughter! If you vote Democratic, you Vote for the RED LIGHTS! If you vote Republican, you Vote for the CADETS! VOTE THE SOCIALIST TICKET, and you VOTE FOR DECENCY!" But the best were a series: "ASK ROOT where he was on the evening of September Third?" "ASK ROOT what business he had with the Old Man?" "ASK ROOT how much he got?" Having mailed the letter to Lipsky and sent off the copy to the printer, we turned in just at sun-up. We were awakened a few hours later by the arrival of a socialist committee. There was Dowd, a Scotch carpenter; Kaufmann, a brewery driver, and Lipsky, the candidate. He was a Russian Jew, and had been a professor in the old country. He could speak very little English, but he had served a long term of exile in the Siberian prison mines. The socialists had no idea of winning the election. The campaign was for them only a demonstration, a couple of months when they had larger audiences at their soap-box meetings. They were suspicious of us.