Rebellion

"Nope, promised to be home on time for supper."

"Get panned last night!"

"Yep."

The group of men turned to the clock which was ticking high up on the wall between the smudgy painting of Leda and The Swan and the framed group photograph of famous pugilists from Paddy Ryan to the present day.

"It's only nineteen past; plenty time for just one more."

Jim Connor compared his watch with the clock and found they tallied. The grave bartender took the dice and box from behind the cigar counter and courteously placed them upon the bar.

"Well," bargained Jim, "if it is just one more."

"J.O.M." they chorused, and the dice rolled upon the polished oak.

"What'll it be, gents?"

"Beer."

"Scotch high."

"Bourbon."

"A small beer, Jack."

"Beer."

"Yours, Jim?" prompted the watchful bartender.

"Well--I guess you can give me a cigar this time, Jack."

The practiced bartender, standing by his beer pump, slid the whisky glasses along the slippery counter with a delicate touch, as a skillful dealer distributes cards. He set out the red and smoky whiskies, the charged water, the tumbler, with its cube of ice; drew two glasses of beer, scraped the top foam into the copper runway, and almost simultaneously, as if he had four hands, laid three open cigar boxes before Jim, who selected a dark "Joe Tinker."

"Join us, Jack," invited the loser of the dice game, hospitably waving his hand. The efficient bartender drew a small half-glass of lithia for himself. Five feet rested upon the comfortable rail before the bar, there was the little pause imposed by etiquette, six glasses were raised to eye-level.

"Here's whatever."

"Happy days."

"S'looking at you," ran the murmur.

"The big fellow!" exclaimed one.

Chorus: "Yes, the big fellow!"

"I'll sure have to come in on that," said Jim, pressing between two shoulders to the bar. "A little bourbon, Jack," he asked briskly.

The other glasses were lowered until Jim also received his.

Then all were again raised to eye-level. Unanimously, "The big fellow!"

Heads were thrown back and each ego there, except the bartender, received a charming little thrill.

The beer men wandered to the back of the saloon and dipped into a large pink hemisphere of cheese. The whisky men suppressed coughs. Jim tipped his head back about five degrees and inquired, "Is the big fellow coming 'round to-night?"

"He's due," replied Jack, wiping his bar dry again.

"How's things looking to you?"

"We--ell, there's always a lot of knockers about."

"Yes, 'pikers' like Ben Birch and Coffey Neal, that line up with the big fellow for ten years and then throw him overnight because he won't let 'em name the alderman this time. And he always treated 'em right. Better than me. An' jou ever hear me kicking?"

"Nary once, Jim."

"That's because I am a white man with my friends. But these other Indians--well," said Jim earnestly, "God knows ingratitude gets my goat."

Jim Connor was a ward heeler and the big fellow was his ward boss. Jim was allowed to handle some of the money in his precinct at primaries and elections; he landed on the public pay-roll now and then; he was expected to attend funerals, bowling matches, saloons, picnics, cigar shops and secret society meetings throughout the year; his influence lay in his strength with the big fellow. Did a storekeeper want an awning over the sidewalk, or did he not want vigorous building inspection, if he lived in Jim's precinct, he told Jim, and Jim told the big fellow, and the big fellow told the alderman, and the alderman arranged it with his colleagues on a basis of friendship. In return, the storekeeper voted with the organization, which was the big fellow, who was thus enabled always to nominate and usually to elect candidates who would do what he told them. He told them to line up with the interests who had subscribed to the campaign fund--and he was the campaign fund. The entire process is pretty well known nowadays through the efforts of Mr. Lincoln Steffens and his associate muckrakers.

But there is no immediate cause for alarm; this is not a political novel.

The clock pointed nearly to seven and Jim, when he saw it, sighed. That meant unpleasantness. His supper certainly would be cold, but he wasn't thinking of that. He was thinking of his wife. She was sure to make him uncomfortable in some way or other, because he had broken his promise about being home on time. Probably she would be silent. If there was anything he hated, it was one of her silent spells. Just "No" and "Yes," and when he asked her what in hell was the matter, she would say "Nothing."

The trouble was, though, that he always knew what the matter was, even when she said "Nothing." What devil's power was there in wives, anyway, that enabled them to hurt by merely not speaking? He had tried silences on her a lot of times, but they never worked, not once. He liked the old days better, when she used to scold and plead and weep.

He remembered the first time he had come home drunk, half a dozen years ago, when he had barely turned from bridegroom to husband. She helped him that night to undress and to go to bed. And she had done other things for him, too, that even now he was ashamed to remember. And the next day she hadn't scolded once, but had fetched him a cup of coffee in bed as soon as he woke up. It surprised him; overwhelmed him. It had made him very humble. He had never been so repentant before or since.

She didn't reproach him that time--not a word. He didn't mean she had one of her silences--those didn't begin until much later; but she tried to talk about their usual affairs, as if nothing had happened. And everything had happened. They both knew that.