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In reply, confident Barney Samuel, who is not wasting much energy campaigning, cried: "Mud-slinger." The response of voters was much livelier. Attendance at Dilworth street rallies zoomed from 50 to 3,000 (for one rally last week, a crowd of 7,500 jammed the busy intersection of Chestnut and Broad). Dilworth himself was not the only attraction. At rallies he was often preceded by Hegeman's string band, one of Philadelphia's famed Mummers'Parade organizations. His family went campaigning with him—and turned out to be just as belligerent as he. Once his wife, Ann, smacked an obscene heckler with her handbag. Another time, Daughter Deborah, 11 , handed out a leaflet to a man who promptly tore it up and threw it in the gutter. "You can't do that to my Daddy," yelled Deborah, and beaned the man with her whole bundle of leaflets.
More Broadsides. Encouraged by the big turnouts, Candidate Dilworth widened his attack. He accused Sheriff Austin Meehan, one of the most powerful of Philadelphia Republicans, of keeping ex-convicts on his staff. He also laid into many a lesser Republican, including a magistrate, charging them with protecting bookmakers and speakeasies.
One of his targets countered with a $25,000 libel suit. Sheriff Meehan, a triple-chinned 200-pounder who likes to gobble ice cream by the quart, called Dilworth "an old gossip."
Meanwhile, the odds on a Dilworth victory, prohibitive at the outset, plummeted daily. The Republicans still appeared likely to pull through on the strength of their customarily overpowering majorities in 20 downtown and river wards—the "controlled" wards. But Dick Dilworth was giving them a scare. Said one unhappy ward heeler: "It's getting so they're afraid to take a bet at City Hall."