One way out : $b A middle-class New-Englander emigrates to AmericaBartlett, Frederick Orin
General
One way out : $b A middle-class New-Englander emigrates to America
Bartlett, Frederick Orin
Political fiction; United States -- Social conditions -- 1865-1918 -- Fiction
I made several speeches myself though it was hard work for me. I don't
run to that sort of thing. I did it however just because I didn't like
it and because I felt it was the duty of a citizen to do something now
and then he doesn't like for his city and his country. The old excuse
with me had been that politics was a dirty business at best and that
it ought to be left to the lawyers and such who had something to gain
from it. The only men I ever knew who went into it at all were those
who had a talent for it and who liked it. Of course that's dead wrong.
A man who won't take the trouble to find out about the men up for
office and who won't bother himself to get out and hustle for the best
of them isn't a good citizen or a good American. He deserves to be
governed by the newcomers and deserves all they hand out to him. And
the time to do the work isn't when a man is up for president of the
United States, it's when the man is up for the common council. The
higher up a politician gets, the less the influence of the single
voter counts.
It was in the spring that some of my ideals received a set back. The
alderman from our ward died suddenly and Rafferty was naturally hot
after the vacancy. He came to see me about it, but before he broached
this subject he laid another before me that took away my breath. It
was nothing else than that I should go into partnership with him under
the firm name of "Carleton and Rafferty." I couldn't believe it
possible that he was in a position to take such a step within a couple
of years of digging in the ditch. But when he explained the scheme to
me, it was as simple as rolling off a log. A firm of liquor dealers
had agreed to back him--form a stock company and give him a third
interest to manage it. He had spoken to them of me and said he'd do it
if they would make it a half interest and give us each a quarter.
"But good Lord, Dan," I said, "we'd have to swing a lot of business to
make it go."
"Never you worry about thot, mon," he said. "I'll fix thot all right
if I'm elicted to the boord."
"You mean city contracts?" I said.
"Sure."
I began to see. The liquor house was looking for more licenses and
would get their pay out of Dan even if the firm didn't make a cent.
But Dan with such capital back of him as well as his aldermanic power
was sure to get the contracts. He would leave the actual work to me
and my men.
I sat down and for two hours tried to make Dan realize how this crowd
wanted to use him. I couldn't. In addition to being blinded by his
overwhelming ambition, he actually couldn't see anything crooked in
what they wanted. He couldn't understand why he should let such an
opportunity drop for someone else to pick up. He had slipped out of my
hands completely. This was where the difference between five or six
years in America as against two hundred showed itself. And yet what
was the old stock doing to offset such personal ambition and energy as
Rafferty stood for?
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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