“Here,” said Pixley, “I reckon this is better. Jest two men by theirselves kin fix up a thing like this a lot quicker, and I seen you didn’t want to talk too much before them. You make your own deal with ’em afterwards, or none at all, jest as you like! They’ll do whatever you say, anyway. I sized you up to run that bunch, first time I ever laid eyes on the outfit. Now see here, Pete, you listen to me. I reckon I kin turn a little trick here that’ll do you some good. You kin bet I see that the men I pick fer my leaders—like you, Pete—git their rights! Now here: there’s you and the other six, that’s seven; it’ll be three dollars in your pocket if you deliver the goods.”
“No! no!” said Pietro in earnest protestation. “We seven a good Republican. We vote a Republican—same las’ time, all a time. Eet eesa not a need to pay us to vote a Republican. You save that a money, Meesa Peaslay.”
“You don’t understand,” groaned Pixley, with an inclination to weep over the foreigner’s thick-headedness. “There’s a chance fer a big deal here for all the boys in the precinck. Gil. Maxim’s backers’ll pay big fer votes enough to swing it. The best of ’em don’t know where they’re at, I tell you. Now here, you see here”—he took an affectionate grip of Pietro’s collar—“I’m goin’ to have a talk with Maxim’s manager to-morrow, I’ve had one or two a’ready, and I’ll put up the price all round on them people. It’s no more’n right, when you count up what we’re doin’ fer them. Look here, you swing them six in line and march ’em up, and all of ye stamp the rooster instead of the eagle this time, and help me to show Maxim that Frank Pixley’s there with the goods, and I’ll hand you a five-dollar bill and a full box o’ cigars, see?”
Pietro nodded and smiled through the darkness. “Stamp that eagle!” he answered, “eesa all right, Meesa Peasley. Don’t you have afraid. We all seven a good Republican! Stamp that eagle! Hoor-r-ra! Republican eternall!”
Pixley was left sitting on the barrel, looking after the light figure of the young man joyously tripping back to the cellar, and turning to wave a hand in farewell from the street.
“Well, I am damned!” the politician remarked, with unwitting veracity. “Did the dern Dago bluff me, does he want more, er did he reely didn’t un’erstand fer honest?” Then, as he took up his way, crossing the street at the warning of some red and green smallpox lanterns, “I’ll git those seven votes, though, someway. I’m out fer a record this time, and I’ll git ’em!”
Bertha went with her fiancé to select the home that was to be theirs. They found a clean, tidy, furnished room, with a canary bird thrown in, and Toby, in the wild joy of his heart, seized his sweetheart round the waist and tried to force her to dance under the amazed eyes of the landlady.
“You yoost behafed awful!” exclaimed the blushing waitress that evening, with tears of laughter at the remembrance.
She was as happy as her lover, except for two small worries that she had: she feared that her uncle, Louie Gratz, with whom she lived, or one of her few friends, might, when they found she was to marry Toby, allude to him as a “Dago,” in which case she had an intuition that he would slap the offender; and she was afraid of the smallpox, which had caused the quarantine of two shanties not far from her uncle’s house. The former of her fears she did not mention, but the latter she spoke of frequently, telling Pietro how Gratz was panic-stricken, and talked of moving, and how glad she was that Toby’s “gran’ palazzo” was in another quarter of the city, as he had led her to believe. Laughing her humours almost away, he told her that the red and green lanterns, threatening murkily down the street, were for only wicked ones, like that Meesa Peaslay, for whom she discovered, Pietro’s admiration had diminished. And when she thought of the new home—far across the city from the ugly flags and lanterns—the tiny room with its engraving of the “Rock of Ages” and its canary, she forgot both her troubles entirely; for now, at last, the marvellous fact was assured: the five hundred dollars was pinned into the waistcoat pocket, lying upon Pietro’s heart day and night, the precious lump that meant to him Bertha and a home. The good Republican set election-day for the happiest holiday of his life, for that would be his wedding-day.
He left her at her own gate, the evening before that glorious day, and sang his way down the street, feeling that he floated on the airy uplift of his own barcarole beneath sapphire skies, for Bertha had put her arms about him at last.
“Toby,” she said, “lieber Toby, I am so all-lofing by you—you are sitch a good maan—I am so—so—I am yoost all-lofing by you!” And she cried heartily upon his shoulder. “Toby, uf you ain’d here for me to-morrow by eckseckly dwelf o’glock, uf you are von minutes late, I’m goin’ yoost fall down deat! Don’ you led nothings happen mit you, Toby.”
And she had whispered to him, in love with his old tender mockery of her, to sing “Libra Ogostine” for her before he said good-night.
Mr. Pixley, again seated upon the barrel which he had used for his interview with Toby, beheld the transfigured face of the young man as the chestnut vender passed the mouth of the alley, and the committee-man released from his soul a burdening profanity in the ear of his companion and confidant, a policeman who would be on duty in Pixley’s precinct on the morrow, and who had now reported for instructions not necessarily received in a too public rendezvous.
“After I talked to him out here on this very barrel,” said Pixley, his anathema concluded, “I raised the bid on him; yessir, you kin skin me fer a dead skunk if I didn’t offer him ten dollars and a box of cigars fer the bunch; and him jest settin’ there laughin’ like a plumb fool and tellin’ me I didn’t need to worry, they’d all vote Republican fer nothin’! Talked like a parrot: ‘Vote a Republican! Republican eternal!’ Republican! Faugh, he don’t know no more why he’s a Republican than a yeller dog’d know! I went around to-night, when he was out, thought mebbe I could fix it up with the others. No, sir! Couldn’t git nothing out of ’em except some more parrot-cackle: ‘Vote same Petro. All a good Republican!’ It’s enough to sicken a man!”
“Do we need this gang bad?” inquired the policeman deferentially.
“I need everybody bad! This is a good-sized job fer me, and I want to do it right. Throwin’ the precinck to Maxim is goin’ to do me some wrong with the Republican crowd, even if they don’t git on that it was throwed; and I want to throw it good! I couldn’t feel like I’d done right if I didn’t. I’ve give my word that they’ll git a majority of sixty-eight votes, and that’ll be jest twicet as much in my pocket as a plain majority. And I want them seven Dagoes! I’ve give up on votin’ ’em; it can’t be done. It’d make a saint cuss to try to reason with ’em, and it’s no good. They can’t be fooled, neither. They know where the polls is, and they know how to vote—blast the Australian ballot system! The most that can be done is to keep ’em away from the polls.”
“Can’t you git ’em out of town in the morning?”
“D’ you reckon I ain’t tried that? No, sir! That Dago wouldn’t take a pass to heaven! Everything else is all right. Doc Morgan’s niggers stays right here and votes. I know them boys, and they’ll walk up and stamp the rooster all right, all right. Them other niggers, that Hell-Valley gang, ain’t that kind; and them and Tooms’s crowd’s goin’ to be took out to Smelter’s ice-houses in three express wagons at four o’clock in the morning. It ain’t goin’ to cost over two dollars a head, whiskey and all. Then, Dan Kelly is fixed, and the Loo boys. Mike, I don’t like to brag, and I ain’t around throwin’ no bokays at myself as a reg’lar thing, but I want to say right here, there ain’t another man in this city—no, nor the State neither—that could of worked his precinck better’n I have this. I tell you, I’m within five or six votes of the majority they set for their big money.”
“Have you give the Dagoes up altogether?”
“No, by——!” cried the committee-man harshly, bringing his dirty fist down on the other’s knee. “Did you ever hear of Frank Pixley weakenin’?
Did you ever see the man that said Frank Pixley wasn’t game?” He rose to his feet, a ragged and sinister silhouette against the sputtering electric light at the alley mouth. “Didn’t you ever hear that Frank Pixley had a barrel of schemes to any other man’s bucket o’ wind? What’s Frank Pixley’s repitation lemme ast you that? I git what I go after, don’t I? Now look here, you listen to me,” he said, lowering his voice and shaking a bent forefinger earnestly in the policeman’s face; “I’m goin’ to turn the trick. And I ought to do it, too. That there Pete, he ain’t worth the powder to blow him up—you couldn’t learn him no politics if you set up with him night after night fer a year. Didn’t I try? Try? I dern near bust my head open jest thinkin’ up ways to make the flathead see. And he wouldn’t make no effort, jest set there and parrot out ‘Vote a Republican!’ He’s ongrateful, that’s what he is. Well, him and them other Dagoes are goin’ to stay at home fer two weeks, beginnin’ to-night.”
“I’ll be dogged if I see how,” said the policeman, lifting his helmet to scratch his head.
“I’ll show you how. I don’t claim no credit fer the idea, I ain’t around blowin’ my own horn too often, but I’d like fer somebody to jest show me any other man in this city could have thought it out! I’d like to be showed jest one, that’s all, jest one! Now, you look here; you see that nigger shanty over there, with the smallpox lanterns outside?”
The policeman shivered slightly. “Yes.”
“Look here; they’re rebuildin’ the pest-house, ain’t they?”
“Yes.”
“Leavin’ smallpox patients in their own holes under quarantine guard till they git a place to put ’em, ain’t they?”
“Yes.”
“You know how many niggers in that shack?”
“Four, ain’t they?”
“Yessir, four of ’em. One died to-night, another’s goin’ to, another ain’t tellin’ which way he’s goin’ yit; and the last one, Joe Cribbins, was the first to take it; and he’s almost plumb as good as ever ag’in. He’s up and around the house, helpin’ nurse the sick ones, and fit fer hard labour. Now look here; that nigger does what I tell him and he does it quick—see? Well, he knows what I want him to do to-night. So does Charley Gruder, the guard over there. Charley’s fixed; I seen to that; and knows he ain’t goin’ to lose no job fer the nigger’s gittin’ out of the back winder to go make a little sociable call this evening.”
“What!” exclaimed the policeman, startled; “Charley ain’t goin’ to let that nigger out!”
“Ain’t he? Oh, you needn’t worry, he ain’t goin’ fur! All he’s waiting fer is fer you to give the signal.”
“Me!” The man in the helmet drew back.
“Yessir, you! You walk out there and lounge up towards the drug-store and jest look over to Charley and nod twice. Then you stand on the corner and watch and see what you see. When you see it, you yell fer Charley and git into the drug store telephone, and call up the health office and git their men up here and into that Dago cellar like hell! The nigger’ll be there. They don’t know him, and he’ll just drop in to try and sell the Dagoes some policy tickets. You understand me?”
“Mother Mary in heaven!” The policeman sprang up. “What are you going to do?”
“What am I going to do?” shrilled the other, the light of a monstrous pride in his little eyes. “I’m goin’ to quarantine them Dagoes fer fourteen days. They’ll learn some politics before I git through with ’em. Maybe they’ll know enough United States language to foller their leader next time!”
“By all that’s mighty, Pixley,” said the policeman, with an admiration that was almost reverence, “you are a schemer!”
“Mein Gott!” screeched Bertha’s uncle, snapping his teeth fiercely on his pipe-stem, as he flung open the door of the girl’s room. “You want to disgraze me mit der whole neighbourhoot, ’lection night? Quid ut! Stob ut! Beoples in der streed stant owidside und litzen to dod grying. You voult goin’ to marry mit a Dago mens, voult you! Ha, ha! Soife you right! He run away!” The old man laughed unamiably. “Ha, ha! Dago mens foolt dod smard Bertha. Dod’s pooty tough. But, bei Gott, you stop dod noise und ect lige a detzent voomans, or you goin’ haf droubles mit your uncle Louie Gratz!”
But Bertha, an undistinguishable heap on the floor of the unlit room, only gasped brokenly for breath and wept on.
“Ach, ach, ach, lieber Gott in Himmel!” sobbed Bertha. “Why didn’t Toby come for me? Ach, ach! What iss happened mit Toby? Somedings iss happened—I know ut!”
“Ya, ya!” jibed Gratz; “somedings iss heppened, I bet you! Brop’ly he’s got anoder vife, dod’s vot heppened! Brop’ly leffing ad you mit anoder voomans! Vot for dit he nefer tolt you vere he lif? So you voultn’t ketch him; dod’s der reason! You’re a pooty vun, you are! Runnin’ efter a doity Dago mens! Bei Gott! you bedder git oop und back your glo’es, und stob dod gryin’. I’m goin’ to mofe owid to-morrow; und you kin go verefer you blease. I ain’d goin’ to sday anoder day in sitch a neighbourhoot. Fife more smallpox lanterns yoost oop der streed. I’m goin’ mofe glean to der oder ent of der city. Und you can come by me or you can run efter your Dago mens und his voomans! Dod’s why he dittn’t come to marry you, you grazy—ut’s a voomans!”
“No, no,” screamed Bertha, stopping her ears with her forefingers. “Lies, lies, lies!”
A slatternly negro woman dawdled down the street the following afternoon, and, encountering a friend of like description near the cottage which had been tenanted by Louie Gratz and his niece, paused for conversation.
“Howdy, honey,” she began, leaning restfully against the gate-post. “How’s you ma?”
“She right spry,” returned the friend. “How you’self an’ you good husban’, Miz Mo’ton?”
Mrs. Morton laughed cheerily. “Oh, he enjoyin’ de ’leckshum. He ’uz on de picnic yas’day, to Smeltuh’s ice-houses; an’ ’count er Mist’ Maxim’s gitting ’lected, dey gi’n him bottle er whiskey an’ two dollahs. He up at de house now, entuhtainin’ some ge’lemen frien’s wi’ de bones, honey.”
“Um hum.” The other lady sighed reflectively. “I on’y wisht my po’ husban’ could er live to enjoy de fruits er politics.”
“Yas’m,” returned Mrs. Morton. “You right. It are a great intrus’ in a man’s life. Dat what de ornator say in de speech f’m de back er de groce’y wagon, yas’m, a great intrus’ in a man’s life. Decla’h, I b’lieve Goe’ge think mo’ er politics dan he do er me! Well ma’am,” she concluded, glancing idly up and down the street and leaning back more comfortably against the gatepost, “I mus’ be goin’ on my urrant.”
“What urrant’s dat?” inquired the widow.
“Mighty quare urrant,” replied Mrs. Morton. “Mighty quare urrant, honey. You see back yon’eh dat new smallpox flag?”
“Sho.”
“Well ma’am, night fo’ las’, dat Joe Cribbins, dat one-eye nigger what sell de policy tickets, an’s done be’n havin’ de smallpox, he crope out de back way, when’s de gyahd weren’t lookin’, an’, my Lawd, ef dey ain’t ketch him down in dat Dago cellar, tryin’ sell dem Dagoes policy tickets! Yahah, honey!” Mrs. Morton threw back her head to laugh. “Ain’t dat de beatenest nigger, dat one-eyed Joe?”
“What den, Miz Mo’ton?” pursued the listener.
“Den dey quahumteem dem Dagoes; sot a gyahd dah: you kin see him settin’ out dah now. Well ma’am, ’cordin’ to dat gyahd, one er dem Dagoes like ter go inter fits all day yas’day. Dat man hatter go in an’ quiet him down ev’y few minute’. Seem ’t he boun’ sen’ a message an’ cain’t git no one to ca’y it fer him. De gyahd, he cain’t go; he willin’ sen’ de message, but cain’t git nobody come nigh enough de place fer to tell ’em what it is. ’Sides, it ’leckshum-day, an’ mos’ folks hangin’ ’roun’ de polls. Well ma’am, dis aft’noon, I so’nter’n by, an’ de gyahd holler out an’ ask me do I want m
ake a dollah, an’ I say I do. I ain’t ’fraid no smallpox, done had it two year’ ago. So I say I take de message.”
“What is it?”
“Law, honey, it ain’t wrote. Dem Dago folks hain’t got no writin’ ner readin’. Dey mo’ er less like de beasts er de fiel’. Dat message by word er mouf. I goin’ tell nuffin ’bout de quahumteem. I’m gotter say: ‘Toby sen’ word to liebuh Augustine dat she needn’ worry. He li’l sick, not much, but de doctah ain’ ’low him out fer two weeks; an’ ’mejutly at de en’ er dat time he come an’ git her an’ den kin go on home wheres de canary bu’d is.’ Honey, you evah hyuh o’ sich a foolishness? But de gyahd, he say de message gotter be ca’yied dass dataways.”
“Lan’ name!” ejaculated the widow. “Who dat message to?”
“Hit to a Dutch gal.”
“My Lawd!” The widow lifted amazed hands to heaven. “De impidence er dem Dagoes! Little mo’ an’ dey’ll be sen’in’ messages to you er me!—What her name?”
“Name Bertha Grass,” responded Mrs. Morton, “an’, nigh as I kin make out, she live in one er dese little w’ite-paint cottages, right ’long yere.”
“Yas’m! I knows dat Dutch gal, ole man Grass, de tailor, dass his niece. W’y, dey done move out dis mawn, right f’um dis ve’y house you stan’in in front de gate of. De ole man skeered er de smallpox, an’ he mad, too, an’ de neighbuhs ask him whuh he gwine, he won’t tell; so mad he won’t speak to nobody. None on ’em ’round hyuh knows an’ dey’s considabul cyu’us ’bout it, too. Dey gone off in bofe d’rections—him one way, her ’nother. ’Peak lak dey be’n quollun!”
“Now look at dat!” cried Mrs. Morton dolefully. “Look at dat! Ain’t dat de doggonest luck in de wide worl’! De gyahd he say dat Dago willin’ pay fifty cents a day fo’ me to teck an’ bring a message eve’y mawn’ tell de quahumteem took off de cellar. Now dat Dutch gal gone an’ loss dat money fo’ me—movin’ ’way whuh nobody cain’t fine ’er!”
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