CHAPTER XXXIX. PUTTING JAZZ INTO THE CAMPAIGN

I will go back and relate more details of my race for office. Having won

the nomination, I thrilled with pleasure and excitement, but I was at

a loss as to how to begin my campaign for election. Should I hope for

support among the white-collar classes in the “swell” end of town, among

the merchants and mill owners or only in the quarter where the workers

lived?

The first act of a candidate is to have cards printed and pass them out

to every one he meets. My cards bore my name and my slogan: “Play the

game square.” I argued that the workers should take part in the city

government. I quit the tin mill and went around making speeches. And as

there were no movies, and the men had nothing to do evenings but listen

to speeches, it was no trouble at all to find an audience. I learned

that a politician or an orator has the same appetite for audiences that

a drunkard has for gin. When is an orator not an orator? When he hasn't

got an audience. I found that when a horse fell down on the street and

a crowd gathered to pick it up, somebody began “addressing the gathering

on the issues of the day.”

Now I know why the cranks from everywhere swarm into any region where a

strike is on. They are seeking audiences. They have no love for humanity

except that portion of humanity which is forced to be an audience for

their itching tongues. I have known rich Jawbone Janes to travel half

across the continent to harangue a poor bunch of striking hunyaks. These

daughters of luxury wanted one luxury that money could not buy. The

luxury of chinning their drivel to an audience. You can't buy audiences

as you buy orchids and furs. Accidents make audiences. When a horse

falls down and a crowd gathers, he'll be up again and the crowd gone

before a girl from Riverside Drive can come a hundred miles in a

Pullman. But when the job falls down, the strike crowd sticks together

for days. This gives the crack-brained lady opportunity to catch the

Transcontinental limited and get there in time to pound their ears

with her oratory. She prefers a foreign crowd that can not understand

English; they are slower to balk on her. Not understanding what she

says, it fails to irritate them greatly. I know of one radical rich girl

who boasts she has spread the glad tidings to audiences of thousands

representing every foreign language in America. She still hopes some

time to catch an audience that understands her own language. That would

be a little better fun, she thinks; but still the joy of talking is the

main thing, so it matters little whether their audience understands. She

wants her audiences to be alive, that's all; she doesn't care much what

they're alive with.

When the worker comes to understand that these “leaders” from high

society care nothing for him but only want a prominence for themselves

and have no natural talents with which to earn that prominence, then

the worker will get rid of that tribe forever. Bill Haywood lacked the

qualities that made Sam Gompers a labor leader. Bill decided to be a

leader without qualifying for it, and history tells the rest.

I circulated among the audiences that were listening to other candidates

and waited for the men to express their opinions. I heard one stalwart

old fellow declare he was going to vote for Jazz. “Jazz is the fellow we

want for City Clerk,” I heard him tell his comrades. I had never heard

of Jazz in those days: Jazz was decidedly a dark horse. But the man was

strong for him and wanted his friends to vote the same way.

There is a trick that was often used in small-town elections. When the

“reform element” made a fight on the “old gang” it was customary for the

gang to lie down and place the name of the new man on the ticket. The

reformer thought the gang beaten and that his own election was sure, so

he didn't make a hard campaign. But the gang quietly passed around word

to scratch the name of the reformer and to write in the name of a gang

candidate in the secrecy of the polling booth.

Was this trick being played on me? Were they now passing around the word

to scratch me and write in the name of their friend, Jazz, who had not

come out as a candidate before? I edged in closer to the man who was

boosting Mr. Jazz for my job, and after listening for a while I learned

that “Jazz Davis” was the man he was electioneering for. He caught sight

of my face and said: “There he is now.”

“My name isn't Jazz,” I said. I handed him my card. It read:

JAS. J. DAVIS

“What is it then?” he asked.

I saw that I would lose a vote if I humiliated him. So I laughed and

said: “Yep, I'm him. I was just kidding. I'm mighty glad to have your

support. Have a cigar.”

But I went away worried. My personal friends knew me as Jimmy. The

men electioneered and handed cards to thought my name was Jazz. On the

ballot my name would appear JAMES. Between “Jimmy,” “Jim,” “James” and

“Jazz” my fellows would find lots of room for confusion. Every vote that

I lost on that account would be due to my own carelessness.

It taught me the lesson of exactness. I never again put out any puzzling

language, but tried to stick to words that could not be misunderstood.