FOREWORD

	You may not be old enough to remember the acute housing shortage following World War II (the subject of this story) but if you are over six but not yet old enough for the undertaker, you are aware of the current problem of getting in out of the rain. . . a problem especially acute for the young couple with one baby and for the retired old couple trying to get by on Social “Security” plus savings if any. (I am not suggesting that it is easy for those between youth and old age; the present price of mortgage money constitutes rape with violence; the price tag on an honestly-constructed—if you can find one—two-bedroom house makes me feel faint.)
	In 1960 in Moscow Mrs. Heinlein and I had as Intourist courier a sweet child named Ludmilla—23, unmarried, living with her father, mother, brother and sisters. She told us that her ambition in life was for her family not to have to share a bathroom with another family.
	The next aesthete who sneers at our American “plumbing culture” in my presence I intend to cut into small pieces and flush him down that W.C. he despises.

	Any old pol will recognize the politics in this story as the Real McCoy. Should be. Autobiographical in many details. Which details? Show me a warrant and I’ll take the Fifth.
A BATHROOM OF HER OWN


	Ever step on a top step that wasn’t there?
	That’s the way I felt when I saw my honorable opponent for the office of city councilman, third district.
	Tom Griffith had telephoned at the close of filing, to let me know my opponents. “Alfred McNye,” he said, “and Francis X. Nelson.”
	“McNye we can forget,” I mused. “He files just for the advertising. It’s a three-way race—me, this Nelson party, and the present encumbrance, Judge Jorgens. Maybe we’ll settle it in the primaries.” Our fair city has the system laughingly called “non-partisan”; a man can be elected in the primary by getting a clear majority.
	“Jorgens didn’t file, Jack. The old thief isn’t running for re-election.”
	I let this sink in. “Tom, we might as well tear up those photostats. Do you suppose Tully’s boys are conceding our district?”
	“The machine can’t concede the third district, not this year. It must be Nelson.”
	“I suppose so . . . it can’t be McNye. What d’you know about him?”
	“Nothing.”
	“Nor I. Well, we’ll look him over tonight.” The Civic League had called a “meet-the-candidates” meeting that night. I drove out to the trailer camp where I hang
my hat—then a shower, a shave, put on my hurtin’ shoes, and back to town. It gave me time to think.
	It’s not unusual for a machine to replace—temporarily—a man whose record smells too ripe with a citizen of no background to be sniped at. I could visualize Nelson—young, manly looking, probably a lawyer and certainly a veteran. He would be so politically naive that he would stand without hitching, or so ambitious that it would blind him to what he must do to keep the support of the machine. Either way the machine could use him.
	I got there just in time to be introduced and take a seat on the platform. I couldn’t spot Nelson but I did see Cliff Meyers, standing with some girl. Meyers is a handyman for Boss Tully—Nelson would be around close
	McNye accepted the call of the peepul in a few hundred well-worn words then the chairman introduced Nelson “—a veteran of this war and candidate for the same office”
	The girl standing with Meyers walked up and took the stage
	They clapped and somebody in the balcony gave a wolf whistle Instead of getting flustered, she smiled up and said, “Thank you!”
	They clapped again and whistled and stomped She started talking I’m not bright—I had trouble learning to wave bye-bye and never did master patty-cake. I expected her to apologize for Nelson’s absence and identify herself as his wife or sister or something. She was into her fourth paragraph before I realized that
she was Nelson.	j Francis X. Nelson—Frances X. Nelson. I wondered
what I had done to deserve this. Female candidates are poison to run against at best; you don’t dare use the ordinary rough-and-tumble, while she is free to use anything from a blacksnake whip to mickeys in your coffee.
	Add to that ladylike good looks, obvious intelli
gence, platform poise—and a veteran. I couldn’t have lived that wrong. I tried to catch Tohi Griffith’s eye to share my misery, but he was looking at her and the lunk was lapping it up.
	Nelson—Miss Nelson—was going to town on housing. “You promised him that when he got out of that foxhole nothing would be too good for him. And what did he get? A shack in shanty-town, the sofa in his inlaws’ parlor, a garage with no plumbing. If I am elected I shall make it my first concern—”
	You couldn’t argue against it. Like good roads, good weather, and the American Home, everybody is for veterans’ housing.
	When the meeting broke up, I snagged Tom and we rounded up the leaders of the Third District Association and adjourned to the home of one of the members. “Look, folks,” I told them, “when we caucused and I agreed to run, our purpose was to take a bite out of the machine by kicking out Jorgens. Well, the situation has changed. It’s not too late for me to forfeit the filing fee. How about it?”
	Mrs. Holmes—Mrs. Bixby Holmes, as fine an old warhorse as ever swung a gavel—looked amazed. “What’s gotten into you, Jack? Getting rid of Jorgens is only half of it. We have to put in men we can depend on. For this district, you’re it.”
I shook my head. “I didn’t want to be the candidate; I wanted to manage. We should have had a veter“There’s nothing wrong with your war record,” pi~it
in Dick Blair.
	“Maybe not, but it’s useless politically. We needed a veteran.” I had shuffled papers in the legal section of the Manhattan project—in civilian clothes. Dick Blair, a paratrooper and Purple Heart, had been my choice. But Dick had begged off, and who is to tell a combat veteran that he has got to make further sacrifice for the dear peepul?
	“I abided by the will of the group, because Jorgens
was not a veteran either. Now look at the damn thing—What makes you think I can beat her? She’s got political sex-appeal.”
	“She’s got more than political sex-appeal”—this from Tom.
	When Dr. Potter spoke we listened; he’s the old head in our group. “That’s the wrong tack, Jack. It does not matter whether you win.”
	“I don’t believe in lost causes, Doctor.”
	“I do. And so will you, someday. If Miss Nelson is Tully’s choice to succeed Jorgens, then we must oppose her.”
	“She is with the machine, isn’t she?” asked Mrs. Holmes.
	“Sure she is,” Tom told her. “Didn’t you see that Cliff Meyers had her in tow? She’s a stooge—the Stooge with the Light Brown Hair.”
	I insisted on a vote; they were all against me. “Okay,” I agreed, “if you can take it, I can. This means a tougher campaign. We thought the dirt we had on Jorgens was enough; now we’ve got to dig.”
	“Don’t fret, Jack,” Mrs. Holmes soothed me. “We’ll dig. I’ll take charge of the precinct work.”
	“I thought your daughter in Denver was having a baby?”
	“So she is. I’ll stick.”
	I ducked out soon after, feeling much better, not because I thought I could win, but because of Mrs. Holmes and Dr. Potter and more like them. The team spirit you get in a campaign is pretty swell; I was feeling it again and recovering my pre-War zip.
	Before the War our community was in good shape. We had kicked out the local machine, tightened up civil service, sent a police lieutenant to jail, and had put the bidding for contracts on an honest-to-goodness competitive basis—not by praying on Sunday, either, but by volunteer efforts of private citizens willing to get out and punch doorbells.
	Then the War came along and everything came unstuck.
	Naturally, the people who can be depended on for the in-and-out-of-season grind of volunteer politics are also the ones who took the War the most seriously. From Pearl Harbor to Hiroshima they had no time for politics. It’s a wonder the city hail wasn’t stolen during the War—bolted to its foundations, I guess.
	On my way home I stopped at a drive-in for a hamburger and some thought. Another car squeezed in close beside me. I glanced up, then blinked my eyes. “Well, I’ll be—Miss Nelson! Who let you out alone?”
	She jerked her head around, ready to bristle, then turned on the vote-getter. “You startled me. You’re Mr. Ross, aren’t you?”
	“Your future councilman,” I agreed. “You startled me. How’s the politicking? Where’s Cliff Meyers? Dump him down a sewer?”
	She giggled. “Poor Mr. Meyers! I said goodnight to him at my door, then came over here. I was hungry.”
	“That’s no way to win elections. Why didn’t you invite him in and scramble some eggs?”
	“Well, I just didn’t want—I mean I wanted a chance to think. You won’t tell on me?” She gave me the yougreat-big-strong-man look.
	“I’m the enemy—remember? But I won’t. Shall I go away, too?”
	“No, don’t. Since you are going to be my councilman, I ought to get acquainted. Why are you so sure you will beat me, Mr. Ross?”
	“Jack Ross—your friend and mine. Have a cigar. I’m not at all sure I can beat you. With your natural advantages and Tully’s gang behind you I should ‘a stood in bed.
	Her eyes went narrow; the vote-getter smile was gone. “What do you mean?” she said slowly. “I’m an independent candidate.”
	It was my cue to crawl, but I passed. “You expect
me to swallow that? With Cliff Meyers at your elbow—” The car hop interrupted us; we placed our orders and I resumed. She cut in.
	“I do want to be alone,” she snapped and started to close her window.
	I reached out and placed a hand on the glass. “Just a moment. This is politics; you are judged by the company you keep. You show up at your first meeting and Cliff Meyers has you under his wing.”
	“What’s wrong with that? Mr. Meyers is a perfect gentleman.”
	“And he’s good to his mother. He’s a man with no visible means of support, who does chores for Boss Tully. I thought what everybody thought, that the boss had sent him to chaperone a green candidate.”
	“It’s not true!”
	“No? You’re caught in the jam cupboard. What’s your story?”
	She bit her lip. “I don’t have to explain anything to you.
	“No. But if you won’t, the circumstances speak for themselves.” She didn’t answer. We sat there, ignoring each other, while we ate. When she switched on the ignition, I said, “I’m going to tail you home.”
	“It’s not necessary, thank you.”
	“This town is a rough place since the War. A young woman should not be out alone at night. Even Cliff Meyers is better than nobody.”
	“That’s why I let them— Do as you see fit!” I had to skim red lights, but I kept close behind her. I expected her to rush inside and slam the door, but she was waiting by the curb. “Thank you for seeing me home, Mr. Ross.”
	“Quite all right.” I went upon her front porch with her and said goodnight.
	“Mr. Ross—I shouldn’t care what you think, but I’m not with Boss Tully. I’m independent.” I waited. Presently she said, “You don’t believe me.” The big, beautiful eyes were shiny with tears.
	“I didn’t say so—but I’m waiting for you to explain.”
	“But what is there to explain?”
	“Plenty.” I sat down on the porch swing. “Come here, and tell papa. Why did you decide to run for office?”
	“Well . . . “ She sat down beside me; I caught a disturbing whiff of perfume. “It started because I couldn’t find an apartment. No, it didn’t—it was farther back, out in the South Pacific. I could stand the insects and the heat. Even the idiotic way the Army does things didn’t fret me much. But we had to queue up to use the wash basins. There was even a time when baths were rationed. I hated it. I used to lie on my cot at night, awake in the heat, and dream about a bathroom of my own. A bathroom of my own! A deep tub of water and time to soak. Shampoos and manicures and big, fluffy towels! I wanted to lock myself in and live there. Then I got out of the Army—”
	“Yes?”
	She shrugged. “The only apartment I could find carried a bonus bigger than my discharge pay, and I couldn’t afford it anyhow.”
	“What’s wrong with your own home?”
	“This? This is my aunt’s home. Seven in the family and I make eight—one bathroom. I’m lucky to brush my teeth. And I share a three-quarters bed with my eight-year-old cousin.”
	“I see. But that doesn’t tell why you are running for office.”
	“Yes, it does. Uncle Sam was here one night and I was boiling over about the housing shortage and what I would like to do to Congress. He said I ought to be in politics; I said I’d welcome the chance. He phoned the next day and asked how would I like to run for his seat? I said—”
	“Uncle Sam—Sam Jorgens!”
	“Yes. He’s not my uncle, but I’ve known him since I was little. I was scared, but he said not to worry, he
would help me out and advise me. So I did and that’s all there is to it. You see now?”
	I saw all right. The political acumen of an Easter bunny—except that the bunny rabbit was likely to lick the socks off me. “Okay,” I told her, “but housing isn’t the only issue. How about the gas company franchise, for example and the sewage disposal plant? And the tax rate? What airport deal do you favor? Do you think we ought to ease up on zoning and how about the freeways?”
	“I’m going after housing. Those issues can wait.”
	I snorted. “They won’t let you wait. While you’re riding your hobbyhorse, the boys will steal the public blind—again.”
	“Hobbyhorse! Mister Smarty-Britches, getting a house is the most important thing in the world to the man who hasn’t one. You wouldn’t be so smug if you were in that fix.”
	“Keep your shirt on. Me, I’m sleeping in a leaky trailer. I’m strong for plenty of housing—but how do you propose to get it?”
	“How? Don’t be silly. I’ll back the measures that push it.”
	“Such as? Do you think the city ought to get into the building business? Or should it be strictly private enterprise? Should we sell bonds and finance new homes? Limit it to veterans, or will you help me, too? Heads of families only, or are you going to cut yourself in on it? How about pre-fabrication? Can we do everything you want to do under a building code that was written in 1911?” I paused for breath. “Well?”
	“You’re being nasty, Jack.”
	“I sure am. But that’s not half of it. I’ll challenge you to debate on everything from dog licenses to patent paving materials. A nice, clean campaign and may the best man win—providing his name is Ross.”
	“I won’t accept.”
	“You’ll wish you had, before we’re through. My boys
and girls will be at all your meetings, asking embarrassing questions.”
	She looked at me. “Of all the dirty politics!”
	“You’re a candidate, kid; you’re supposed to know the answers.”
	She looked upset. “I told Uncle Sam,” she said, half to herself, “that I didn’t know enough about such things, but he said—”
	“Go on, Frances. What did he say?”
	She shook her head. “I’ve told you too much already.
	“I’ll tell you. You were not to worry your pretty head, because he would be there to tell you how to vote. That was it, wasn’t it?”
	“Well, not in so many words. He said—”
	“But it amounted to that. And he brought Meyers around and said Meyers would show you the ropes. You didn’t want to cause trouble, so you did what Meyers told you to do. Right?”
	“You’ve got the nastiest way of putting things.”
	“That’s not all. You honestly think you are independent. But you do what Sam Jorgens tells you and Sam Jorgens—your sweet old Uncle Sam—won’t change his socks without Boss Tully’s permission.”
	“I don’t believe it!”
	“Check it. Ask some of the newspaper boys. Sniff around.”
	“I shall.”
	“Good. You’ll learn about the birds and the bees.” I stood up. “I’ve worn out my welcome. See you at the barricades, comrade.”
	I was halfway to the street when she called me back. “Jack!”
	“Yes, Frances?” I went back up on the porch. “I’m going to find out what connection, if any, Tully has with Uncle Sam, but, nevertheless and notwithstanding, I’m an independent. If I’ve been led around by the nose, I won’t be for long.”
	“Good girl!”
	“That’s not all. I’m going to give you the fight of your life, whip the pants off you, and wipe that know-it-all look off your face!”
	“Bravo! That’s the spirit, kid. We’ll have fun.”
	“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 durn 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 sr.~i 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, ayid 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 per-
sonally, 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.”
	“Yes, but I checked on that, Jack. Uncle Sam explained the whole thing. Tully used to support him, but they broke because Uncle Sam wouldn’t take the machine’s orders. It’s not his fault that the machine used to back him.”
	“And you believed him.”
	“No, I made him prove it. You said to check with the newspapers—Uncle Sam had me talk with the editor of the Herald.” Tom snorted.
	“He means,” I told her, “that the Herald is part of the machine. I meant talk to reporters. Most of them are honest and all of them know the score. But I can’t see how you could be so green. I know you’ve been away, but didn’t you read the papers before the War?”
	It developed that, what with school and the War, she hadn’t been around town much since she was fifteen. Mrs. Holmes broke in, “Why, she’s not eligible, Jack! She doesn’t have the residence requirements.”
	I shook my head. “As a lawyer, I assure you she does. Those things don’t break residence—particularly as she enlisted here. How about making us all some coffee, Mrs. Holmes?”
	Mrs. Holmes bristled; I could see that she did not want to fraternize with the enemy, but I took her arm and led her into the house, whispering as I went. “Don’t be hard on the kid, Molly. You and I made mistakes while we were learning the ropes. Remember Smythe?”
	Smythe was as fine a stuffed shirt as ever took a bribe—we had given him our hearts’ blood. Mrs. Holmes looked sheepish and relaxed. We chatted about the heat and presidential possibilities, then Frances said, “I’m conceding nothing, Jack—but I’m going to pay for those papers.”
	“Skip it,” I said. “I’d rather bang Tully’s heads together. But see here—you’ve got an hour yet; I want to show you something.”
	“Want me along, Jack?” Tom suggested, looking at Frances.
	“If you like. Thanks for the coffee, Mrs. Holmes—I’ll be back to clean up the mess.” We drove to Dr. Potter’s office and got the photostats we had on Jorgens out of his safe. We didn’t say anything; I just arranged the exhibits in logical order. Frances didn’t talk either, but her face got whiter and whiter. At last she said, “Will you take me home now, Mr. Ross?”
	We bumped along for the next three weeks, chasing votes all day, licking stamps and stenciling autobumper signs late at night and never getting enough sleep. Presently we noticed a curious fact—McNye was coming up. First it was billboards and throwaways, next was publicity—and then we began to get reports from the field of precinct work for McNye.
	We couldn’t have been more puzzled if the Republican Party had nominated Norman Thomas. We made another spot check. Mrs. Holmes and Dr. Potter and I went over the results. Ross and Nelson, neck and
neck—a loss for Nelson; McNye a strong third and coming up fast. “What do you think, Mrs. Holmes?”
	“The same you do. Tully has dumped Nelson and bought up McNye.”
	Potter agreed. “It’ll be you and McNye in the runoff. Nelson is coasting on early support from the machine. She’ll fizzle.”
	Tom had come in while we were talking. “I’m not sure,” he said. “Tully needs a win in the primary, or, if that fails, a run-off between the girl and McNye. We’ve got an organization, she hasn’t.”
	“Tully can’t count on me running third. In fact, I’ll beat out Frances for second place at the very worst.”
	Tom looked quizzical. “Seen tonight’s Herald, Jack?”
	“No. Have they discovered I’m a secret drinker?”
	“Worse than that.” He chucked us the paper.
“CLAIM ROSS INELIGIBLE COUNCILMANIC RACE” it read; there was a 3-col cut of my trailer, with me in the door. The story pointed out that a city father must have lived two years in the city and six months in his district. The trailer camp was outside the city limits.
	Dr. Potter looked worried. “Can they disqualify you, Jack?”
	“They won’t take it to court,” I told him. “I’m legal as baseball. Residence isn’t geographical location; it’s a matter of intent—your home is where you intend to return when you’re away. I’m registered at the flat I had before the War, but I turned it over to my partner when I went to Washington. My junk is still in it, but he’s got a wife and twins. Hence the trailer, a temporary exigency of no legal effect.”
	“Hmmm . . . how about the political effect?”
	“That’s another matter.”
	“You betcha it is,” agreed Tom. “How about it, Mrs. Holmes?”
	She looked worried. “Tom is right. It’s tailor-made for a word-of-mouth campaign combined with unfa
vorable publicity. Why vote for a man who doesn’t even live in your district?—that sort of thing.”
	I nodded. “Well, it’s too late to back out, but, let’s face it, folks— We’ve wasted our nickel.”
	For once they did not argue. Instead Potter said, “What sort of person is Miss Nelson? Could we possibly back her in the finals?”
	“She’s a good kid,” I assured him. “She got taken in and hated to admit it, but she’s better than McNye.”
	“I’ll say she is,” agreed Tom.
	“She’s a lady,” stated Mrs. Holmes.
	“But,” I objected, “we can’t elect her in the finals. We can’t pin anything on McNye and she’s too green to stand up to what the machine can do to her in a long campaign. Tully knows what he’s doing.”
	“I’m afraid you’re right,” Potter agreed. “Jack,” said Tom, “I take it you think we’re licked now.
	“Ask Mrs. Holmes.”
	Mrs. Holmes said, “I hate to say so, and I’m not quitting, but it would take a miracle to put Jack on the final ballot.”
	“Okay,” said Tom, “let’s quit being boy scouts and have some fun the rest of the campaign. I don’t like the way Boss Tully campaigns. We’ve played fair; what we’ve gotten in return is shenanigans.”
	“What do you want to do?”
	He explained. Presently I nodded and said, “I’m all for it—and a wrinkle of my own. It’ll be fun, and it just might work.”
	“Well, call her up then!”
	I got Frances Nelson on the phone. “Jack Ross, Frances. Haven’t seen you around much, sweetheart. How’s the campaign?”
	She sounded tired. “Oh, that— What campaign, Jack?”
	“Did you withdraw? I haven’t seen any announcement.”
	“It wasn’t necessary. I had a show-down with
Jorgens and after that my campaign just disappeared. The committee vanished away. Look, Jack, I’d like to see you—to apologize.”
	“Forget it, I want to see you, too. I’ll pick you up.” We laid it on the line. “I’m dropping out of the race, Frances. We want to throw our organizational support to you—provided.”
	She stared. “But you can’t, Jack. I’m going to vote for you.”
	“Huh? Never mind, you won’t get a chance to.” I showed her the Herald story. “It’s a phony, but it licks me anyhow. I should have played up my homeless condition but, like a dope, I let them do it. It’s too late now—when a candidate has to explain things he’s back on his heels and ready for the knockout. I was a fifty-fifty squeeze at best; this tips the balance.”
	She was staring at the picture, bug-eyed, knuckles pressed to her mouth. “Jack— Oh, dear! I’ve gone and done it again.”
	“Done what?”
	“Got you into this mess. I told Sam Jorgens all about our first talk, including how you had to camp out in a trailer. I—”
	I brushed it aside. “No matter. They would have stumbled on it anyhow. See here—we’re going to take you on. We might even elect you.”

“But I don’t want the job, Jack. I want you to have
it.
	“Too late, Frances. But we want to beat that spare tire, McNye. The machine is still using you, to beat me in the primary by splitting the non-machine vote; then they’ll settle your hash. I’ve got a gimmick for that. But first—you call yourself an independent. Well, you aren’t now.”
	“What do you mean? I won’t be anything else.”
	“They gave women the vote! Look, darling, a candidate can be unbossed, but not independent. Independence is an adolescent notion. To merit support you
have to commit yourself—and there goes your independence.
	“But I— Oh, politics is a rotten business!”
	“You make me tired! Politics is just as clean-or as dirty—as the people who practice it. The people who say it’s dirty are too lazy to do their part in it.” She dropped her face into her hands. I took her by the shoulders, and shook her. “Now you listen to me. I’m going over our program, point by point. If you agree with it and commit yourself, you’re our candidate. Right?”
	“Yes, Jack.” It was just a whisper.
	We ran through it. There was no trouble, it was sane and sensible, likely to appeal to anyone with no ax to grind. The points she did not understand we let lay over. She liked especially my housing bills and began to perk up and sound like a candidate.
	“Okay,” I said finally. “Here’s the gimmick. I’ll get my name off the ballot so that the race will be over in the primary. It’s too late to do it myself, but they’ve played into my hands. It’ll be a court order, for ineligibility through non-residence.”
	Dr. Potter looked up sharply. “Come again, son? I thought you said your legal position was secure.”
	I grinned. “It is—if I fight. But I won’t. Here’s the gag—we bring a citizen’s suit through a couple of dummies. The court orders me to show cause. I default. Court has no option but to order my name stricken from the ballot. One, two, three.”
	Tom cheered. I bowed. “Now Dr. Potter is your new campaign chairman. You go on as before, going where you are sent and speaking your piece. Oh, yes—I’m going to give you some homework on other issues than housing. As for Tom and me—we’re the special effects department. Just forget us.”
	Three days later I was off the ballot. Tom handled it so that it looked like McNye and Tully. Mrs. Holmes had the delicate job of convincing our precinct work-
ers that Frances was our new white hope. Dr. Potter and Dick Blair got Frances endorsed by the Civic League—the League would endorse a giant panda against a Tully man. And Dick Blair worked up a veterans’ division.
	Leaving Tom and me free for fun and games.
	First we got a glamor pic of Frances, one that made her look like Liberty Enlightening the World, with great sorrowful eyes and a noble forehead, and had it blown up for billboards—6-sheets; 24-sheets look like too much dough.
	We got a “good” picture of McNye, too—good for us. Like this—you send two photographers to a meeting where your man is to speak. One hits him with a flash bulb; the second does also, right away, before the victim can recover from his reflex. Then you throw the first pic away. We got a picture which showed McNye as pop-eyed, open-mouthed, and idiotic—a Kallikak studying to be a Jukes. It was so good we had to tone it down. Then I went up state and got some printing done, very privately.
	We waited until the last few days, then got busy. First we put snipe sheets on our own billboards, right across Frances’ beautiful puss so that those eyes looked appealingly at you over the paster. “VOTE FOR McNYE” they read. Two nights later it was quarter cards, this time with his lovely picture: VOTE
FOR McNYE—A WOMAN’S PLACE IS IN THE HOME. We stuck them up on private property, too.
	Tom and I drove around the next day admiring our handiwork. “It’s beautiful,” Tom said dreamily. “Jack, do you suppose there is any way we could get the Communist Party to endorse McNye?”
	“I don’t see how,” I admitted, “but if it doesn’t cost too much I’ve still got a couple of war bonds.”
	He shook his head. “It can’t work, but it’s a lovely thought.”
	We saved our double-whammie for the day before election. It was expensive—but wait. We hired some
skid-row characters on Saturday, through connections Tom has, and specified that they must show up with two-day beards on Monday. We fed each one a sandwich loaded with garlic, gave him literature and instructions—ring the doorbell, blow his breath in the victim’s face, and hand her a handbill, saying abruptly, “Here’s how you vote, lady!” The handbill said, “VOTE FOR McNYE” and had his special picture. It had the rest of Tully’s slate too, and some choice quotes of McNye’s best double talk. Around the edge it said “100% American—lOO% American.”
	We pushed the stumblebums through an average of four precincts apiece, concentrating on the better neighborhoods.
	That night there was an old-fashioned torchlight parade—Mrs. Holmes’ show, and the wind-up of the proper campaign. It started off with an elephant and donkey (Heaven knows where she borrowed the elephant!) The elephant carried signs: I’M FOR FRANCES; the donkey, SO AM I. There was a kid’s band, flambeaux carried by our weary volunteers, and a platoon of WAC and WAVE veterans marching ahead of the car that carried Frances. She looked scared and lovely.
	Tom and I watched it, then got to work. No sleep that night— More pasters. Windshield size this time, 3”xlO”, with glue on the printed side. I suppose half the cars in town have no garages, housing being what it is. We covered every block in the district before dawn, Tom driving and me on the right with a pail of water, a sponge, and stickers. He would pull alongside a car; I would slap a sticker on the windshield where it would stare the driver in the face—and have to be scraped off. They read: VOTE FOR McNYE—KEEP AMERICA PURE.
	We figured it would help to remind people to vote. I voted myself when the polls opened, then fell into bed.
	I pulled myself together in time to get to the party at the headquarters—an empty building we had borrowed for the last month of the campaign. I hadn’t given a thought to poll watchers or an honest count— that was Mrs. Holmes’ baby—but I didn’t want to miss the returns.
	One election party is like another—the same friendly drunks, the same silent huddle around the radio, the same taut feeling. I helped myself to some beer and potato chips and joined the huddle.
	“Anything yet,” I asked Mrs. Holmes. “Where’s Frances?”
	“Not yet. I made her lie down.”
	“Better get her out here. The candidate has to be seen. When people work for a pat on the back, you’ve got to give ‘em the pat.”
	But Frances showed up about then, and went through the candidate routine—friendly, gracious, thanking people, etc. I began to think about running her for Congress.
	Tom showed up, bleary-eyed, as the first returns came in. All McNye. Frances heard them and her smile slipped. Dr. Potter went over to her and said, “It’s not important—the machine’s precincts are usually first to report.” She plastered her smile back on.
	McNye piled up a big lead. Then our efforts began to show—Nelson was pulling up. By 10:30 it was neck and neck. After a while it began to look as if we had elected a councilman.
	Around midnight McNye got on the air and conceded.

	So I’m a councilman’s field secretary now. I sit outside the rail when the council meets; when I scratch my right ear, Councilman Nelson votes “yes”; if I scratch my left ear, she votes “no”—usually.
	Marry her? Me? Tom married her. They’re building a house, one bedroom and two bathrooms. When they can get the fixtures, that is.