Note 57 — Chapter Thirty-five

... speaking of red tape, and his abhorrence of it, long after his (Dave’s) official position would have given him precedence in any important man’s anteroom, he never permitted himself to be ushered into the private office ahead of those waiting their turn. If there was no appointment, he insisted upon taking his place. I am in possession of an amusing incident that had to do with this characteristic quality of his consideration for others.

Once, while he was Police Commissioner of Springfield, and calling on the then Governor of the State (Canfield), he sat next to a garrulous old farmer in the anteroom, who, also waiting his turn, struck up a conversation with my brother. In the course of it, the old fellow, whom my brother had never seen before, began to describe to him the Police Commissioner, whom he professed to know intimately.

“Quietest fellow you ever seen. Square Dave, the boys call him. Kinda solid, square-looking fellow. Says a thing. Does that thing. Biggest fighter for what he thinks right you ever seen and never lifts his voice or his hand or his little finger so far’s anybody around him can see. When them Russians and Pole factory-workers began copying them Soviets two years ago, I was standing within a stone’s-throw of him. But believe me, I was behind a pillar. Yes sir, I coulda put out my hand and touched him. Well sir, I wanna say to you—I wanna say to you that he stood on the little old balcony outside the Civic Building window, square, plain-appearing fellow, full-blast where a bullet or even a fist could have done for him. Did he budge? Not a budge. Some pretty little lady, his wife, I reckon, poking her head outa the window in back of his, was shivering all right, but never letting out a cheep.

“‘Attention,’ he snaps out suddenly, when the brick hit his cheek that smashed his glasses. Not scared-like. ‘Attention—’ he says to the militia quiet-like, as if he was telling them to drink a cup of tea. ‘It’s between principle and the people now. Principle must save the people. Jerk them to their senses with three shots, and I’ll hold them there. Attention—Fire!’ Just like that! And darned if that’s just what he did do. On three shots, mind you. Three shots, mind you, and them shots in the air.”

And all through this, my brother, who had never seen the fellow before, listened gravely to this piecemeal picture of himself, mostly inaccurate, and evidently garbled from newspaper accounts of the opening explosion of the bloodless Springfield riots.