There was war in Chicago—silent, bitter war. It was part of the war throughout the whole nation; it was part of the World War. Money was bursting the coffers of the banks—poor people’s savings, rich people’s dividends. It must be invested in order to insure principal and interest for the poor and profits for the rich. It had been invested in the past in European restoration and American industry. But difficulties were appearing—far-off signs of danger which bankers knew. European industry could only pay large dividends if it could sell goods largely in the United States. High tariff walls kept those goods out. American industry could pay large dividends only if it could sell goods abroad or secure monopoly prices at home. To sell goods abroad it must receive Europe’s goods in payment. This meant lower tariff rates. To keep monopoly at home, prices must be kept up by present or higher tariff rates. It was a dilemma, a cruel dilemma, and bankers, investors, captains of industry, scanned the industrial horizon, while poor people shivered from cold and unknown winds.
There was but one hope in the offing which would at once ward off labor troubles by continued high wages and yet maintain the fabulous rate of profit; and that was new monopoly of rich natural resources. Imperial aggressiveness in the West Indies, Mexico, and Africa held possibilities, when public opinion was properly manipulated. But right here in the United States was White Coal! Black coal, oil, and iron were monopolized and threatened with diminishing returns and world competition. But white coal—the harnessing of the vast unused rivers of the nation; monopolizing free water power to produce dear electricity! Quick! Quick! Act silently and swiftly before the public awakes and sees that it is selling something for nothing. Keep Doolittle in Congress. Keep all the Doolittles in Congress. Let the silent war against agitators, radicals, fools, keep up. Hold the tariff citadel a little longer—then let it crash with the old savings gone but the new investments safe and ready to take new advantage of lower wages and less impudent workers. So there was war in Chicago—World War, and the Republican machine of Cook County was fighting in the van. And in the machine Sammy and Sara and Matthew were little cogs.
A Michigan Avenue bus was starting south from Adams Street in early March when two persons, rushing to get on at the same time, collided. Mrs. Beech, president of the Women’s City Club, was a little flustered. She ought to have come in her own car, but she did not want to appear too elegant on this visit. She turned and found herself face to face with Mr. Graham, the chairman of the Republican County Central Committee. They lived in the same North Shore suburb, Hubbard Woods, and had met before.
“I beg your pardon,” said Mr. Graham hastily. “One has to rush so for these ’buses that it is apt to be dangerous.”
Mrs. Beech smiled graciously. She was rather glad to meet Mr. Graham, because she wanted to talk some things out with him. They sat on top and began with the weather and local matters in their suburb. Then Mrs. Beech observed:
“The colored folks are certainly taking the South Side.”
“It is astonishing,” answered Mr. Graham. “What would the ghosts of the old Chicago aristocracy say?”
“Well, it shows progress, I suppose,” said Mrs. Beech.
“I am not so sure about that,” said Mr. Graham. “It shows activity and a certain ruthless pushing forward, but I am a little afraid of results. We have a most difficult political problem here.”
“So I understand; in fact, I am going to a meeting of one of their women’s clubs now.”
“Indeed! Well, I hope we may count on your good offices,” and Mr. Graham smiled. “I don’t mind telling you that we are in trouble in this district. We have got a big Negro vote, well organized under Sammy Scott, of whom perhaps you have heard. Scott and his gang are not easily satisfied. They have been continually raising their demands. First, they wanted money, and indeed they have never got over that; but they demanded money first for what I suspect amounted to direct bribery. This, of course, was coupled with protection for gambling and crime, a deplorable situation, but beyond control. This went on for a while, although the sums handed them from the party coffers were larger and larger. Then they began to want offices, filling appointments as janitors and cleaners at first; then higher and higher until at last the Negroes of Chicago have two aldermen, three members of the legislature, a State senator, a city judge and several commissionerships.”
“They are proving apt politicians,” smiled Mrs. Beech.
“And they are not through,” returned Mr. Graham. “Today they are insisting upon a congressman.”
“Well, they deserve some representation, don’t they, in Congress?”
“Yes, that’s true; but neither they nor we are ready for it just yet. Membership in Congress not only involves a certain social status and duties, but just now in the precarious economic position of the country, we need trained and experienced men in Congress and not mere ward politicians.”
“Is Doolittle a man of such high order and ability?”
“No, he is not. Doolittle is an average politician, but he is a white man; he has had long experience; he holds exceedingly important places on the House committees because of his long service; and above all he is willing to carry out the plans of his superiors.”
“Or in other words,” said Mrs. Beech tartly, “he takes orders from the machine.”
“Yes, he does,” said Graham, turning toward her and speaking earnestly. “And how are we going to run this country unless thoughtful men furnish the plans and find legislators and workers who are willing to carry them out? We are in difficulties, Mrs. Beech. If the tariff is tinkered with by amateur radicals, your income and mine may easily go to smash. If securities which are now good and the basis of investment are attacked by Bolsheviks, we may have an industrial smash such as the world has seldom seen. We haven’t paid our share for the World War yet, and we may have to foot a staggering bill.
“Now, we have farsighted plans for guiding the industrial machine and keeping it steady; Doolittle is a cog, nothing more than a cog, but a dependable cog, in the machine. Now here come the Negroes of this district and demand the fulfillment of a promise, carelessly, and to my mind foolishly given several years ago, that after this term Doolittle was to be replaced in Congress by the head of the black political machine, Sammy Scott. Well, it’s impossible. I think you see that, Mrs. Beech. We don’t want Scott in Congress representing Chicago. He has neither the brains nor the education—”
Mrs. Beech interrupted. “But I understand,” she said, “that there is a young college-bred man who is candidate and who is intellectually rather above the average of our Congressmen.”
“There certainly is,” said Mr. Graham, bitterly, “and he’s got a wife who is one of the most astute politicians in this city.”
“Yes,” said Mrs. Beech, “I am on my way to one of her meetings. It is at her home on Grand—I mean, South Parkway. I wonder where I should transfer?”
“I will show you,” said Mr. Graham. “We have still a little way to go. It would be just like Mrs. Towns to pull all strings in order to get you to her house. She has social aspirations and is the real force behind Towns.”
“But Towns himself?” asked Mrs. Beech.
“Towns himself is a radical and has a shady record. He was once in the penitentiary. His wife is trying to keep him in hand, but his appeal is to the very elements among white people and colored people which mean trouble for conservative industry in the United States. He cannot for a moment be considered. I have talked frankly to you, Mrs. Beech. We are coming to your corner now, but I wish we could come to some sort of understanding with the liberal elements that you represent. I do not think that you, Cadwalader, and myself are so far apart. I hope you will help us.”
Mrs. Beech descended and Graham rode on.
It was some hours later that Mr. Cadwalader and Mrs. Beech had dinner together. They represented various elements interested in reform. Mr. Cadwalader was the official head of the Farmer-Labor Party in Chicago, while Mrs. Beech represented one element of the old Progressive Party and looked toward alliance with Mr. Cadwalader’s group.
“But,” Mr. Cadwalader complained over his fish, “we’ve got an impossible combination. We cannot get any real agreement on anything. You and I, for instance, cannot stand for free trade as a present policy. It would ruin us and our friends. On the other hand, we cannot advocate a high tariff. We and our manufacturing friends want gradual reduction rather than increase of duties. Then, too, our friends among the farmers and the laborers want high and low tariff at the same time, only on different things. The farmers want cheap foreign manufactured goods and high rates on food; the laborers want free food and high manufacturing wages. Finally, we have all got to remember the Socialists and Communists who want to scrap the whole system and begin anew.”
“I was talking with Mr. Graham yesterday,” said Mrs. Beech, “and he believes that the Republicans and the Farmer-Labor Party could find some common aims.”
“I am sure we could, if the Republicans would add to their defense of sound business and investment some thought of the legitimate demands of the farmer and laborer, and then would restrain legislation which directly encourages monopoly.”
“True,” said Mrs. Beech, “but wouldn’t any rapprochement with the Republicans drive out of your ranks the radicals who swell the potential reform vote? And in this case would we not leave them to the guidance of demagogues and emphasize the dangerous directions of their growth?”
“Precisely, precisely. And that is what puzzles me. You know, only last night I was visiting a meeting of one of the newer trade unions, the Box-Makers. It was organized locally in New York in 1919 and now has a national union headquarters there. The union here is only a year old, but it is the center of dangerous radicalism, with lots of Jews, Russians, and other foreigners. They want paternalism of all sorts, with guaranteed wages, restricted ages and hours of work, pensions, long vacations and the like; not to mention wild vaporings about absolute free trade; ‘One Big Union’; government ownership of industry, and limitation of wealth. And the trouble also,” continued Mr. Cadwalader, “is that this union has some startlingly capable leaders; two representatives from New York were there last night, and a letter from the National President was read which was dangerous in its sheer ability, appeal, and implications.
“I was aghast. I wanted to repudiate the whole thing forthwith, but I was afraid, as you say, that I would drive them bodily over to the Socialists and Communists. In general, I’m beginning to wonder if we could try to marshal this extreme movement back of Matthew Towns. I don’t exactly trust him, and I certainly do not trust his wife. But Towns has got sense. He is a practical politician. And it may be that with his leadership we can restrain these radicals and keep them inside a normal liberal movement.”
Mrs. Beech pushed her dessert aside and sat for a while in a brown study.
“I am wondering too just how much can be done in this one Chicago congressional district, to use Towns and his wife in order to unite Republicans and Progressives, so as to begin a movement which should liberalize the Republican Party and stabilize the radicals. Unless we do this, or at least begin somewhere to do it, I see little hope for reform in politics. A third party in the United States is impossible on account of the Solid South. They are a dead weight and handicap to all political reform. They have but one shibboleth, and that is the Negro.”
“Yes,” said Mr. Cadwalader, “and the Democrats play their usual role in this campaign. Their positive policies are exactly the same as the Republicans’. They, of course, have no chance of winning in this political district, unless the Republicans split. Now with Towns’ revolt, the Republican machine is split and the Democrats are just waiting. If Towns should be nominated they would raise the question of the color line and yell ‘nigger.’ They might in this way elect one of their own number or some independent. If Doolittle is nominated, it is going to be hard to elect him if Towns runs as an independent; and in that case it might be good politics for the Democrats to back Towns and beat the Republican machine. So there they are on the fence, waiting.”
“On the other hand,” said Mrs. Beech, “down in the black trenches the war is bitter, as I gathered from my attendance at the meeting this afternoon. Sammy Scott, the boss, and Sara Towns were formerly close associates and know each other’s personalities, political methods, and secrets. They are watching each other narrowly and are utterly unhindered by scruples. What sort of personality has this man Matthew Towns? Do you know anything about him?”
“I’ve been looking up his record. He intrigues me. He had, I find, an excellent record in medical school. Then in silly pique he became a Pullman porter and, I judge, sank pretty low. He does not seem to have committed any crime, but went to jail on a technicality because he wouldn’t betray some of his friends. Scott rescued him and used him. He’s got brains and education, but he’s queer and not easily approachable.”
“Well, if I were you,” said Mrs. Beech as she arose, “I’d get in touch with Towns and cultivate him. He may be worth while. His wife is a shrewd climber, but even that might be an asset.”
And so they parted.