Baltimore Evening Sun (29 June 1912): 8.

THE OFFICIAL FORECAST [The super-Mahon in his weekly paper.] When the showdown comes he [I] will be UNANIMOULY nominated for the Vice-Presidency.

So shrewd and scientific have been the hygienic measures of Prof. Dr. John Turner, Jr., medical privy councilor to the super-Mahon and surgeon-in-chief to the Democratic National Convention, that not a single member of that great body has fallen ill of smallpox, beriberi or Asiatic cholera during the five days of its deliberations.—Adv.

No matter how cool the weather is, them stuffers don’t find the summer no more comfortable than a body could stand.

Taking everything into consideration, it is probable that you will not find in all Baltimore four men who are firmer believers in the righteousness and efficiency of our local courts than the four former sheriffs who figure so profitably in the excess fee case.

Reluctant but heartfelt tribute of the estimable Labor Leader to the Hon. William H. Anderson, that confidante of Satan:

Say what you will about Bill, he is some Foxy Quiller.

Say what you will against Roosevelt, you can’t hardly say he would hurt Bob Padgett’s business if he was elected.

Dan Loden yelled for Clark 978 times, thus beating Paul Quinn by 21 and Max Ways by 17⅜, but Paul yelled twice as loudly and every one of Max’s yells was half again as long, so the referee has declared it no game.

Come on, Colonel Pabst! We are eager for that Muenchener—bierfisch and all!

Happy days for the folk who contributed to the $100,000 convention fund. As a reward for their genorosity the Hon. Robert Crain gave them good seats to the convention—and now the super-Mahonic ward heelers, aided and abetted by the police, turn them away from the doors. New evidence of the delights and privileges of old-fashioned government.

Ever since the second day of the convention the business of packing the hall with hand-picked precinct bravos has been well organized. The Hon. Trauty Trautfelter, clad in a golden-brown suit and wearing a scarlet Preston ribbon on his hat, is in charge of it. Trauty assembles the boys in front of the Preston headquarters, at 246 West Hoffman street, and then marches them over to Entrance R or to one of the entrances in the alley on the west side of the armory. A majestic sign from Trauty and the doorkeepers let them in. Then the dutiful Fire Department decides that the hall is full enough and the dutiful police bar out all later comers.

The fact is, of course, that every ticket-holder should get his seat without the slightest trouble. Just enough tickets were issued for each section to fill that section. Every ticket is reserved. But after a faithful Preston man is already seated its actual ticket-holder can’t get in. Thus the contributors to the convention fund, turned from the doors, have leisure to meditate upon their suckerdom.

The comedy is of vast interest to the unstung observer. Now and then some dignitary of higher rank than humble Trauty—sometimes even Sonny Mahon himself—takes a hand in the packing, When that happens the police give a marvelous display of assiduity. No attention is too much trouble. They not only let the squad in, but actually escort it in, and with some approach to military ceremony. When Sonny himself appears common policemen drop back and high officers of the department do the honors. A guard of honor for the boss is always ready.

Well, well, don’t blame the poor cops. They are chiefly men with families to support and they are doing their best under adverse conditions. What good would it do them to hold up Trauty and his squads and so make trouble for themselves? With a strong and determined Police Board behind them, I haven’t the slightest doubt that they would try to perform their duty—but the Police Board behind them is neither strong nor determined, nor even ordinarily vigilant. Second-rate men in first-rate jobs: there you have the board in seven words. Sonny Mahon, in all the practical affairs of life, is a first-rate man. He knows what he wants—and, wanting it, he takes it.

Considering their long hours and the heartbreaking nature of the conditions under which they work, the police are handling this convention very well indeed. Though armed with espantoons, they are beating very few visitors. Forced to turn away ticket-holders, they are doing it with minimum offensiveness. One cop on Hoffman street tried to force me back on Thursday by prodding me in the stomach, despite my affecting display of six tickets, a dozen badges and an autographed photograph of Dan Loden. But when I protested profanely he promptly withdrew his fist and apologized. That man had been on his legs 13 hours. One must expect, now and then, to be prodded by a cop. It is American. Curse the cop and let it go.

Also, don’t blame Trauty too much for his merry running of the blockade. Trauty is a product of universal manhood suffrage. So long as you let numbskulls vote, you will have Trauties. In passing the boys in he is merely taking care of his friends, an act esteemed and practiced, not only by the gteatest of men, but also by saints. Two-thirds of the peoples of the earth, indeed, regard it so highly that they make it the chief enterprise of their gods. And even if you insist that it is an offense, you must at least admit that it is considerably less heinous than Trauty’s wearing of that golden-brown suit. Here, in truth, is a genuine and indubitable crime againat society, and in any really civilized country it would be sternly punished.

Again, Trauty might do us all a favor by smoking smaller cigars. Those of his present brand are much too large for his face, and in consequence they give him an over-truculent appearance and offer needless outrage to baffled ticket-holders. But these are minor matters. Every man with a touch of hedonism in him is apt to sacrifice the public joy to his own comfort. I myself am too fat. Ed Hirsch wears too many diamonds. The super-Mahon is cruelly beautiful.