King Cole Read Free Page B

strike?”
    “Vaguely,” said Read.
    “I’m breaking a great editorial by Gregg tomorrow. It may throw a scare into the middle class. This general strike business is just a threat; but the way things are…”
    Read calmly finished his ice cream.
    “Major,” he said, “I’m not quite ready to talk yet. But I wouldn’t worry too much if I were you.”
    “All right. I’ll stop worrying. You’re a good man at keeping promises. But you’re really in serious trouble this time. I hope you know what you’re doing.”
    “I think I do.”
    “Good. Tomorrow night I’d like to have you come out to my house. A few of the boys will be there. They’re all willing to back you to the limit, financially, I mean.”
    “I’ll bring Mr. Sullavan with me. You can talk finances with him.”
    “Fine.” The Major drank his coffee hurriedly, then got up. “Will you excuse me? Important engagement. I’ve enjoyed your society very much. Eileen dropped by this noon and tried to crash our luncheon, but I wouldn’t hear of it. She sent her best.”
    When the Major had gone, Gregg lit a cigarette and settled back comfortably. For a long time he studied Read, then he said:
    “Getting in deep, eh, pal?”
    “In what way?”
    “Every way. Got the rich boys spending money on you. They’ll want plenty of service.”
    “They’ll get what’s coming to them, nothing more.”
    “Easy to say.”
    “Easier to do.”
    “I hope you’re right. Read, we hardly ever talk about anything. Let’s talk.”
    “All right.”
    “You used to be a thorn in the side of that gang. The Bradley interests, the Freytags, the Meadowses, the Joneses. Remember? They only accepted you as the lesser of two evils. Anything is better to them than a Godforsaken Democrat. Now they’re parking on your doorstep.”
    “They’re scared.”
    “Aren’t you?”
    “Not at all.”
    Gregg glanced at Read.
    “Not really? You mean it?”
    “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
    “I’ll be frank with you, Read. I think you’re slipping. I think you’re going to end up as just another politician.”
    “I’m going to end up as President with a little luck.”
    “Maybe. If you beat Eagle Beak after all this hullabaloo, all the stuffed shirts in America will be writing you fan letters. But that’s not what I mean. You used to think about other things besides merely getting elected.”
    “And you used to think about other things besides pulling down a big salary and writing editorials you don’t believe in yourself.”
    ‘‘I see. In short, we’re middle-aged. Maybe you’re right. Oh, well; worse things could happen. But I can’t see Read Cole married to Eileen Bradley surrounded by an aura of painful respectability and eating out of the hands of the stuffed shirts. It’s not a pretty picture.”
    “It’s not a pretty world.”
    “Oh, a philosopher. What next! You’ll be going to literary teas in striped pants.”
    “Maybe.”
    There was a long pause. Gregg and Read regarded each other a little uneasily; truths had been spoken which had better been left unsaid. They were both a little worried.
    Read finally broke the silence.
    “I want your advice, Gregg.”
    “All right. It’s yours.”
    “Well, I don’t talk about the straw vote much, but, between ourselves, it looks very bad in the farm districts.”
    “Very bad.”
    “Eagle Beak is going to get the radical vote and it is very big right now, especially in the industrial centers like Cleveland and Youngstown. It won’t elect him, however. Neither will the disgruntled Democratic vote. Parkinson will get most of the Democrats. But he doesn’t count.”
    “Quite right.”
    “If Eagle Beak gets the farmers he’ll be elected. I know that. But he’s not going to get them. I’m going to scare them to death. They’re going to vote the straight Republican ticket as they usually do.”
    “Why?”
    “I’m going to make all the radicals, Communists and