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Authors: Thomas Wolfe
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after looking at the boy a moment longer, he turned his attention to the other men again.
It was at just that season of the year when two events which are dear to the speculations of the American had absorbed the public interest. These events were baseball and politics, and at that moment both were thrillingly imminent. The annual baseball contests for “the championship of the world” were to begin within another day or two, and the national campaign for the election of the American president, which would be held in another month, was moving daily to its furious apogee of speeches, accusations, dire predictions, and impassioned promises. Both events gave the average American a thrill of pleasurable anticipation: his approach to both was essentially the same. It was the desire of a man to see a good show, to “take sides” vigorously in an exciting contest— to be amused, involved as an interested spectator is involved, but not to be too deeply troubled or concerned by the result.
It was just natural, therefore, that at the moment when the boy entered the smoking compartment of the train, the conversation of the men assembled there should be chiefly concerned with these twin sports. As he came in, there was a hum of voices, a sound of argument, and then he could see the hearty red-faced man—the politician—shaking his head dubiously and heard him say, with a protesting laugh:
“Ah-h, I don’t know about that. From what I hear it’s just the other way. I was talking to a man from Tennessee the other day, and from what he says, Cox is gaining everywhere. He said that a month ago he wouldn’t have given two cents for his chances, but now he thinks he’s going to carry the State.”
“It’s going to be close,” another conceded. “He may win yet—but it looks to me as if he’s got a hard uphill fight on his hands. Tennessee always polls a big Republican vote—in some of those mountain districts they vote two to one Republican—and this year it looks as if they’re all set for a change. . . . What do you think about it, Emmet?” he said, appealing to the small, swarthy and important-looking little man, who sat there, swinging his short little legs and chewing on a fat cigar with an air of wise reflection.
“Well,” that person answered slowly after a thoughtful moment, taking his cigar in his pudgy fingers and looking at it studiously— “it may be—it may be—that the country’s ready for a change—now don’t misunderstand me,” he went on hastily, as if eager to set their perturbed minds at rest—“I’m not saying that I want to see Harding elected—that I’m going to cast my vote for him—as you know, I’m a party man and have voted the Democratic ticket ever since I came of age—but,” again he paused, frowned importantly at his cigar, and spoke with careful deliberation—“it may just be that we are due for a change this year—that the country is ready for it—that we need it. . . . Now, I supported Wilson twice, in 1912, when he got elected to his first term of office, and again in
1916—”
“The time he kept us out of war,” some one said ironically.
“And,” the little man said deliberately—“if he was running again— if he was well enough to run—if he wanted a third term—(although I’m against the third term in principle),” he amended hastily again—“why, I believe I’d go ahead and vote for him. That’s how much I think of him. But,” again he paused, and meditated his chewed cigar profoundly—“it may be we’re due now for a change. Wilson was a great president—in my opinion, the greatest man we’ve had since Lincoln—I don’t believe any other man could have done the job he did as well as he—BUT,” the word came out impressively, “the job is done! The war is over—”
“Yes, thank God!” some one murmured softly but fervently.
“The people want to forget about the war—they want to forget all their sacrifices and
It was at just that season of the year when two events which are dear to the speculations of the American had absorbed the public interest. These events were baseball and politics, and at that moment both were thrillingly imminent. The annual baseball contests for “the championship of the world” were to begin within another day or two, and the national campaign for the election of the American president, which would be held in another month, was moving daily to its furious apogee of speeches, accusations, dire predictions, and impassioned promises. Both events gave the average American a thrill of pleasurable anticipation: his approach to both was essentially the same. It was the desire of a man to see a good show, to “take sides” vigorously in an exciting contest— to be amused, involved as an interested spectator is involved, but not to be too deeply troubled or concerned by the result.
It was just natural, therefore, that at the moment when the boy entered the smoking compartment of the train, the conversation of the men assembled there should be chiefly concerned with these twin sports. As he came in, there was a hum of voices, a sound of argument, and then he could see the hearty red-faced man—the politician—shaking his head dubiously and heard him say, with a protesting laugh:
“Ah-h, I don’t know about that. From what I hear it’s just the other way. I was talking to a man from Tennessee the other day, and from what he says, Cox is gaining everywhere. He said that a month ago he wouldn’t have given two cents for his chances, but now he thinks he’s going to carry the State.”
“It’s going to be close,” another conceded. “He may win yet—but it looks to me as if he’s got a hard uphill fight on his hands. Tennessee always polls a big Republican vote—in some of those mountain districts they vote two to one Republican—and this year it looks as if they’re all set for a change. . . . What do you think about it, Emmet?” he said, appealing to the small, swarthy and important-looking little man, who sat there, swinging his short little legs and chewing on a fat cigar with an air of wise reflection.
“Well,” that person answered slowly after a thoughtful moment, taking his cigar in his pudgy fingers and looking at it studiously— “it may be—it may be—that the country’s ready for a change—now don’t misunderstand me,” he went on hastily, as if eager to set their perturbed minds at rest—“I’m not saying that I want to see Harding elected—that I’m going to cast my vote for him—as you know, I’m a party man and have voted the Democratic ticket ever since I came of age—but,” again he paused, frowned importantly at his cigar, and spoke with careful deliberation—“it may just be that we are due for a change this year—that the country is ready for it—that we need it. . . . Now, I supported Wilson twice, in 1912, when he got elected to his first term of office, and again in
1916—”
“The time he kept us out of war,” some one said ironically.
“And,” the little man said deliberately—“if he was running again— if he was well enough to run—if he wanted a third term—(although I’m against the third term in principle),” he amended hastily again—“why, I believe I’d go ahead and vote for him. That’s how much I think of him. But,” again he paused, and meditated his chewed cigar profoundly—“it may be we’re due now for a change. Wilson was a great president—in my opinion, the greatest man we’ve had since Lincoln—I don’t believe any other man could have done the job he did as well as he—BUT,” the word came out impressively, “the job is done! The war is over—”
“Yes, thank God!” some one murmured softly but fervently.
“The people want to forget about the war—they want to forget all their sacrifices and
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