(See Cover)
About all that little Joe ever did was brush the flies off the horses' big rumps while his old man did the shoeing. Little Joe never actually worked at his father's trade. But he grew up to have his old man's squat, thick-knit build. And in the politician's trade, which Joe Martin took up, he worked somewhat in the manner of a blacksmith—a nail here, a nail there, working most of the time close to the ground.
It was as good a method as any. The voters in his district started sending him to Congress in 1924 and kept it up without a break. His Republican Party was beaten to a frazzle by Franklin Roosevelt, but Joe kept going back. In 1938 he took over the leadership of the beaten G.O.P. in the House. He was thwarted and jeered at, but Joe kept hammering away.
On election night last week Joe Martin sat in the one-room editorial office of his Evening Chronicle in North Attleboro, Mass., his ear at the telephone. His face was puffy with fatigue; the corner of his left eye twitched constantly. He looked even more rumpled than usual. His own campaign for re-election had not been hard. When the State Legislature had redistricted Massachusetts six years ago it had included Wellesley in Joe's district. "A breeding place for candidates," Joe had remarked at the time, thinking of professors; and sure enough, Wellesley had produced a candidate, although not a professor. The candidate was a college woman named Martha Sharp. But she had never worried Joe. "Do you want to take your troubles to a little girl?" Joe asked the Portuguese workers at a Fall River clam boil.* It wasn't necessary to say much more than that. Joe was not worried about his district. What he was tensely waiting for were the results which would tell him whether the Republicans all across the U.S. were back in power.
Hot Night. Connecticut called. Pennsylvania called. Denver called. Republican headquarters telephoned from Washington (the news was good). A radio man set up his equipment and at 11:38 Joe nervously spoke into the mike. "The Republicans are ready," he said.
The little office was jammed. The Boston Daily Globe's 80-year-old political reporter, Mike Hennessy, sat beside Joe scribbling dispatches which Mr. Hennessy's two middle-aged daughters took to the local Western Union office. Several elderly men in overcoats sat in a corner, staring admiringly at Joe. The boys came in from the Elks Club, and the office filled with noise. Joe grinned indulgently. Brother Charlie winked at some of the boys and invited them upstairs for a quick one (Joe does not drink). Mrs. Lila W. Doe, secretary of the Republican Committee for Franklin, Mass., arrived. LIFE Photographer Allan Grant was there to take pictures (see cut). Joe was back on the telephone. "Send out the notices for the Steering Committee meeting," he said, getting down to business.
At 3 a.m. Joe went home to his old house on Orne St. His horse was shod. Joe could hear it galloping through the silent streets of North Attleboro, through old Boston, across Massachusetts, across Connecticut and New York, across Illinois, across Missouri, across Nevada and California, galloping up the coast to Washington.