Baltimore Evening Sun (1 July 1912): 8.

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

From the current issue of Baltimore, the monthly maerchenbuch of the sarcophagan Merchants and Manufacturers’ Association:

The slum is unknown in Baltimore.

A million dollars cash to any member of the said association who will lay his right hand upon the book of Leviticus and swear that he believes this statement to be true, either literally or figuratively, in any sense comprehensible to the human intelligence, or who will swear that he believes any other member believes it to be true, or who will swear that he believes any registered voter of Baltimore city believes it to be true.

Bill Broening ain’t saying nothing, but you can hear him sort of grin if you listen clost.

If you missed Saturday night’s running amuck of the Maryland delegation you missed the most dramatic scene of this hair-raising convention—the most dramatic and at the same time the most ludicrous. Every one of the principal performers gave a show that was worth twice the money—John Walter Smith, that great apostle of good government, with his popping eyes, his fluttering voice and his general air of a gentleman caught with with the goods; Joshua W. Miles, with his huge bulk and his devastating “I vote for Woodrow Wilson!” Isidor Rayner, with his bewilderment, his indecision and his terrifying frown; the Hon. the super-Mahon, with ambition eating at his heart, and his truant legs carrying him off when the storm broke; Max Ways, with his sudden burst of unsuspected and incredible rhetoric; Dan Loden and Sonny Mahon, vainly trying to play up to a situation far above their talents; Frank Furst and Boomer Dickey, the Prominent Baltimoreans par excellence; and Sol Warfield, oily, furtive Sol, with his beady little eyes and his yellow smile—a smile flattened out, before the first whoops got well under way, into a mirthless colicky grin.

Imagine all these tragic comedians on the stage at once, swinging slapsticks and bladders desperately and yelling their best, and you have a picture of the scene. Here, at last, we Baltimoreans had our masters before us, doing in the open the things they usually do behind closed doors. Here was John Walter Smith waving his arms and apoplectic with indignation; here was Sonny Mahon bellowing his orders to his janissaries and perfumers; here was Senator Rayner in the midst of grim war, his eloquence flabbergasted and unavailing; here was Sol Warfield, sweating and in his shirt sleeves, carrying orders between Thomas F. Ryan, his boss-boss, and the Maryland statesmen he bosses. Sol must have made a dozen trips to and from Ryan’s throne on the middle aisle, and every time he came back he looked more staggered and ill. Toward the end the psychic malaise of the man became almost pathetic. One half expected him to faint, to blow up, to dissolve suddenly in his own fluids.

Altogether a grotesque and even an obscene exhibition, but not without its touch of dignity. It took some courage for Joshua Miles to stand up there and defy that ancient Iron Brigade of South street and the Tenderloin—the traditional, the eternal alliance of Maryland politics. And the hurricane of applause that followed was as much a recognition of his bravery as an indorsement of his vote. The Baltimoreans in the galleries grasped the full significance of the revolt. They were glad to see Wilson get a vote, but they were gladder still to see independence cast a vote. The artificial Clark demonstration of Thursday night was paled and made silly. Here were real cheers, coming straight from the diaphragm. Here was something genuine.

I write before today’s session gets under way. No one, at the moment, knows what will happen before night. Wilson may win, or Clark may win, or some other fellow may win. But meanwhile the public opinion of Baltimore has declared itself unequivocably. The super-Mahon and his heelers, by artfu1ly packing the hall, duly delivered their Clark demonstration on Thursday night, just as they carried the primaries for Clark in May. But on Saturday night they were suddenly and swiftly overwhelmed. No one could listen to that cheer without believing that the people of Baltimore were for Wilson—and not merely by a majority, but by fully 20 to 1.

Them ex-sheriffs has got so used to the money by now that it would be almost stealing to take it away from them.

Moving appeal from the sagacious Baltimore Daily Bulletin most recent addition to the Hon. the super-Mahon’s battery of journalistic tallow-mortars:

BECOME A SCOUT

Read This And Aid The Democratic Party.

We want you to join the “Scouts,” a “secret service” political organization now forming as an auxiliary to the regular organization of the Democratic party. * * *

The object and aims of this organization is to “secretly” gather information as to “how a man is going to vote,” for the use of party leaders. * * *

Wanted: Bright, intelligent men for work. Those at present affiliated with some political club preferred. Here is your chance to step quickly into favor of the party leaders. As a scout you will have opportunity to show your work as never before, and be rewarded accordingly. Investigate this new political “Secret Service” Club. Fully 1,000 scouts will compose the Baltimore division. Such a force, properly handled, would do a lot of good for the party.

Get further particulars by addressing RICHARD RESPESS, originator and “Chief of Scout” movement.

Address care of Baltimore Daily Bulletin, Baltimore, Md.

For surgeon-in-chief and consulting pathologist to the Mahonic Scouts:

Geheimrat Prof. Dr. John Turner, Jr.

Democratic politicians of Chicago, from a list submitted to one of the committees of the national convention.