"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 darn 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 they 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, amid 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.