"Thanks. Well, goodnight."
"Just a second." I put an arm around her shoulders. She leaned away from me warily. "Tell me, darling: who writes your speeches?"
I got kicked in the shins, then the screen door was between us. "Goodnight, Mr. Ross!"
"One more thing - your middle name, it can't be 'Xavier.' What does the X stand for?"
"Xanthippe - want to make something of it?" The door slammed.
I was too busy the following month to worry about Frances Nelson. Ever been a candidate? It is like getting married and having your appendix out, while going over Niagara Falls in a barrel. One or more meetings every evening, breakfast clubs on Saturdays and Sundays, a Kiwanis, Rotary, or Lions, or Chamber of Commerce lunch to hit at noon, an occasional appearance in court, endless correspondence, phone calls, conferences, and, to top it off, as many hours of doorbell pushing as I could force into each day.
It was a grass - roots campaign, the best sort, but strenuous. Mrs. Holmes, by scraping the barrel, rounded up volunteers to cover three - quarters of the precincts; the rest were my problem. I couldn't cover them all, but I could darn well try.
And every day there was the problem of money. Even with a volunteer, unpaid organization, politics costs money - printing, postage, hall rental, telephone bills, and there is gasoline and lunch money for people who can't carry their own expenses. A dollar here and a dollar there and soon they are three thousand bucks in the red.
It is hard to tell how a campaign is going; you tend to kid each other. We made a mid - stream spot check - phone calls, a reply post - card poll, amid a doorbell sampling. And Tom and I and Mrs. Holmes got out and sniffed the air. All one day I bought gasoline here, a cola there, and a pack of cigarettes somewhere else, talking politics as I did so, and never offering my name. By the time I met Tom and Mrs. Holmes at her home I felt that I knew my chances.
We got our estimates together and looked them over. Mine read: "Ross 45%; Nelson 55%; McNye a trace." Tom's was: "fifty - fifty, against us." Mrs. Holmes had written, "A dull campaign, a light vote, and a trend against us." The computed results of the formal polls read; Ross 43%, Nelson 52%, McNye 5% - probable error plus - or - minus 9%.
I looked around. "Shall we cut our losses, or go on gallantly to defeat?"
"We aren't licked yet," Tom pointed out.
"No, but we're going to be. All we offer is the assumption that I'm better qualified than the little girl with the big eyes - a notion in which Joe Public is colossally uninterested. How about it, Mrs. Holmes? Can you make it up in the precincts?"
She faced me. "Jack, to be frank, it's all uphill. I'm working the old faithfuls too hard and I can't seem to stir out any new blood."
"We need excitement," Tom complained. "Let's throw some mud."
"At what?" I asked. "Want to accuse her of passing notes in school, or shall we say she sneaked out after taps when she was a WAC? She's got no record."
"Well, tackle her on housing. You've let her hog the best issue."
I shook my head. "If I knew the answers, I wouldn't be living in a trailer. I won't make phony promises. I've drawn up three bills, one to support the Federal Act, one to revise the building code, and one for a bond election for housing projects - that last one is a hot potato. None of them are much good. This housing shortage will be with us for years."
Tom said, "Jack, you shouldn't run for office. You don't have the fine, free optimism that makes a good public figure."
I grunted. "That's what I told you birds. I'm the manager type. A candidate who manages himself gets a split personality."
Mrs. Holmes knit her brows. "Jack - you know more about housing than she does. Let's hold a rally and debate it."
"Okay with me - I just work here. I once threatened to make her debate everything from streetcars to taxes. How about it, Torn?"
"Anything to make some noise."
I phoned at once. "Is this the Stooge with the Light Brown Hair?"
"That must be Jack Ross. Hello, Nasty. How's the baby - kissing?"
"Sticky. Remember I promised to debate the issues with you? How about 8 p.m. Wednesday the 15th?"
She said, "Hold the line - " I could hear a muffled rumble, then she said, "Jack? You tend to your campaign; I'll tend to mine."
"Better accept, kid. We'll challenge you publicly. Is Miss Nelson afraid to face the issues, quote and unquote."
"Goodbye, Jack."
"Uncle Sam won't let you, will he?" The phone clicked in my ear.
We went ahead anyway. I sold some war bonds and ordered a special edition of the Civic League News, with a Ross - for - Councilman front page, as a throwaway to announce the rally - prizes, entertainment, movies, and a super - colossal, gigantic debate between Ross in this corner and Nelson in that. We piled the bundles of papers in Mrs. Holmes' garage late Sunday night. Mrs. Holmes phoned about seven - thirty the next morning - "Jack," she yipped, "come over right away!"
"On my way. What's wrong?"
"Everything. Wait till you get here." When I did, she led me out to her garage; someone had broken in and had slit open our precious bundles - then had poured dirty motor oil on them.
Tom showed up while we were looking at the mess. "Pixies everywhere," he observed. "I'll call the Commercial Press."
"Don't bother," I said bitterly. "We can't pay for another run." But he went in anyhow. The kids who were to do the distributing started to show up; we paid them and sent them home. Tom came out. "Too late," he announced. "We would have to start from scratch - no time and too expensive."
I nodded and went in the house. I had a call to make myself. "Hello," I snapped, "is this Miss Nelson, the Independent Candidate?"
"This is Frances Nelson. Is this Jack Ross?"
"Yes. You were expecting me to call, I see."
"No, I knew your sweet voice. To what do I owe the honor?"
"I'd like to show you how well your boys have been campaigning.
"Just a moment - I've an appointment at ten; I can spare the time until then. What do you mean; how my boys have been campaigning?"
"You'll find out." I hung up.
I refused to talk until she had seen the sabotage. She stared. "It's a filthy, nasty trick, Jack - but why show it to me?"
"Who else?"
"But - Look, Jack, I don't know who did this, but it has nothing to do with me." She looked around at us. "You've got to believe me!" Suddenly she looked relieved. "I know! It wasn't me, so it must have been McNye."
Tom grunted. I said gently, "Look, darling, McNye is nobody. He's a seventeenth - rater who files to get his name in print. He wouldn't use sabotage because he's not out to win. It has to be you - wait! - not you personally, but the machine. This is what you get into when you accept the backing of wrong 'uns."
"But you're wrong! You're wrong! I'm not backed by the machine."
"So? Who runs your campaign? Who pays your bills?"
She shook her head. "A committee takes care of those things. My job is to show up at meetings and speak."
"Where did the committee come from? Did the stork bring it?"
"Don't be ridiculous. It's the Third District Homeowners' League. They endorsed me and set up a campaign committee for me."
I'm no judge of character, but she was telling the truth, as she saw it. "Ever hear of a dummy organization, kid? Your only connection with this Home - Owners' League is Sam Jorgens ... isn't it?"
"Why, no - that is - Yes, I suppose so."
"And I told you Jorgens was a tame dog for Boss Tully."