TH E FRI EN DLY W I TNESS
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had had in youth, when the dependable old couple looked after him.
The case was this: in the middle of the summer, Mayor John–
son had accepted a gift of $500 from Mr. Charlie Bowman who
ran a prosperous night club with illegal gambling rooms on the second
floor, which were the knowledge and for the most part the pleasure
of everyone in town. Only the policemen who got a few dollars
from the club each week could be thought to take seriously the club's
illegal existence and even they, used to the bonus, often treated it as
a wage increase, granted some years ago by a generous administration.
The Mayor had not taken the gift as a bribe. On the contrary, he had
taken it out of a kind of democratic humility and from certain
rigid convictions of personal loyalty which, while not free from a
hint of spiritual pride, were grand and more than usually disagree–
able to follow faithfully.
The Mayor and the gambler, Charlie Bowman, antipathetic to
the bone, had one of those odd friendships which having accidentally
begun, as this one had years ago on the high-school football team,
maintain themselves unnaturally and with severe strain on both per–
sons. To the Mayor, Charlie Bowman was a challenge, an embarrass–
ment from the past, the humiliating social connection he had chosen
to preserve-his transcendental nature demanded fidelity at least
to
one
of these; Charlie was the principle of continuity, return and
renewal, also the day-to-day practice of equality and the answer to
Mayor Johnson's fear of snobbery. In reality, however, he was
dismayed by Bowman, a sensual, energetic, luxurious man, with a
wide, blond, luxurious face, all dimpled and pink from hot towels.
The gambler's part was more complex; had he been the sort to
examine his feelings he would have discovered that he didn't much
like Mayor Johnson and yet tears almost came into his eyes when–
ever he spoke of "old Jim," although he would rather have had the
companionship of a deaf mute. Like many restless men, Bowman's
gloom was as large as his gaiety. A half-hour had for him a startling
and terrifying reality and could be, at times, as long as a year. When
he stopped by the Mayor's house for an infrequent, ritualistic visit,
Bowman was at first overwhelmingly hearty and cordial, even to the
furniture which he never neglected to compliment because he liked
the scent of the lemon oil Mrs. Johnson used. And then, unable to
retreat immediately, he would experience a seizure of vacuity and
