Between 1920 and 1930 the nation grew lop-sided and so did I. Some call this period the "Post-War Era," but I think it should be called the Bootleg Decade. It was ten years of swelling up and busting; a day of "worthy movements," noonday lunch clubs, an Era of Big Talk.

With the war over, people got the jitters and had to crusade about something. I can remember when I first came back, that Fritz Kreisler was scheduled to play in the town. It was considered very unpatriotic to allow such apparently evil music, and so a great many of our "patriotic" organizations raised cain on the other side, and with the help of some liberally inclined friends finally got it fixed so Fritz could play. Fritz played, but not being interested in violin players, I didn't go. Here was a place where a violin got mixed with liberty.

The jittery feeling of the people did not die down. Another "movement" entered the scene—the Ku Klux Klan—and I suppose the reasons for its origin and habits could best be described by a doctor. The members all swore it was for the preservation of the White Race and the Virtue of Womanhood, besides the Flag, and Honor of various kinds.

Being a born Southerner, I had always heard of the Klan. I had always thought it necessary just following the Civil War, because of the sudden freedom gained by the slaves, and the dirty work of carpetbaggers.

But I smelled a rat from the beginning.

One day, walking down the street I met an old friend, whom I knew to be a Klucker. He was and is the town fanatic, was and is the hater of labor. I was back from the war and undoubtedly he knew more than I did, because he had stayed at home studying conditions.

He took me over to the curb and asked me what clubs I belonged to. Then he asked me if I wanted to join a patriotic, Christian organization. I said yes. He leaned over and whispered: "Would you like to become a member of Ku Klux Klan?"

"No!" I answered and gave him an earful on what I thought of it.

"Well, what the hell are you then?" he said. "You are not a Knight of Columbus, and you certainly ought to belong to something!"

That was the prevailing idea in those days. You had to be a Kiwanian, a Rotarian, a knight or lady of some kind or else you didn't amount to anything.

Being a young and budding attorney, I joined the San Antonio Bar Association. One day I was elected vice-president by some of my friends. Out of the three hundred lawyers I think about seven attended this meeting, and none had paid his dues. That was the reason I got elected. I then found out that I was not quite as popular as I had thought. I noticed this when I took an active part in local affairs and got up some excitement at meetings, and published a monthly paper I called The Whereas.

Some of the more conservative members of the Bar did not like my activities. I had reason to suspect that the old tradition of promoting the vice president to the presidency might be broken in my case. Since the conservatives were all great lovers of precedent, I made up my mind that precedent must be preserved for them at all costs. So at the next election I had enough of my friends there—I think they call it "packing" the meeting—to elect me president. Thus at the age of twenty-four, I became the president of the San Antonio Bar Association.

From then on we had big fine meetings, but very few of the things that I wanted were carried out. However, most everybody paid their dues, and we had money in the treasury. I suggested the minimum fee system, and said that we should stop this idea of being such high-toned gentlement, and consider ourselves more or less a labor union. This was absolutely shocking to the older members of the Bar, and, of course, no suggestions of that kind were ever listened to.

One of the most colorful characters in Texas then was Colonel W. S. Simpkins, a real Southern gentleman, a Confederate officer, who had been my professor in the law school. He looked and acted just like the pictures you see of colonels of the old South, including the goatee, gray locks, Southern hat, vest, and he would say, Sir! (pronounce Suh!) in front of each sentence. But he was no Kentucky colonel; he was a real fighting colonel. For years he had delivered lectures on the old Klan, of which he had been a member just after the Civil War.

So I invited him to come over and be the guest of the Bar Association and speak on the modern Klan. He did, and he gave the organization a drubbing they had never gotten before. It helped to cut their influence at the time.

Like most of the soldiers that came back from the war, I had gotten married—and within five years a gentleman and a lady arrived. We are still together. I belonged to the Kiwanis Club and later the Lions Club, made speeches about Progress (of the wrong kind) and Thrift (which also turns out to have been of the wrong kind) and attended church once in awhile.

During that time, when we were all around about twenty-five or twenty-six, we would sit up all night and argue and drink bootleg whiskey, talk "religion," and not attend to business. Besides that we drank tequila, which only a Texan or a Mexican can stand, and he has to be a brave and brawny one at that. It is pure white; it is distilled of cactus, and the next day you feel like the thorns are all coming out on your body. White mule is like pink tea beside it. I do not advocate any such habits, but all these experiences turned out all right.

While in the Bar Association I learned you are never asked to "run for office" unless you are a stuffed shirt. This put me on notice that any idependent thinker has to fight his way, not once but always; I figure on trouble with my undertaker, who will probably try to bury me in a dress suit.

Another thing I learned during this Bootleg Decade was never to argue religion. Only stupid idiots argue the subject, and I think the best thing is to practice it the best that you know how, and keep your mouth shut about it.

Somehow the law business got on my nerves. I prosecuted a criminal one time and helped convict him. I did not like the idea. I always felt sorry for the defendant, even though the plaintiff hired me. So I quit and went into the lumber business.

Finally, I organized a business with my friend Kelley, a good man. Having seen more or less of union and progressive ideas when I was a kid, I forthwith tried to organize my employees. I had previously refused to join the "Open Shop Association"—for which I thank God now. But, in trying to organize our own employees I was a complete failure, since they considered it all nonsense, as they were getting about a dollar or two a week more than other workers.

Also I got the old speculative bug, just like all other Americans who have a dime. With my old friend Reese Jones, a contractor, we started building houses. We built cheap houses for poor people and I was not ashamed of myself when a house would cost about $800.00 or $1000.00, and we would sell it for about twice what we paid for it. It was nothing more than the order of the day. We would sell the house on the installment plan, hock the note, take out some of the profit and pray the Lord that the rest would be paid.

One time I had an auditor make a statement. It looked to me as if I was about to get rich—that is, what poor people call "middlin' rich." But Hoover got it all, and I am sorry it is gone.

The houses that I and others built were a disgrace to this country. This is no confession, but a fact. That is the reason that the government should subsidize housing. Human beings should not have to live in the rotten habitations handed to them by speculators.

During the time my health was cracking, probably from a war wound that I got on the spinal cord. Whether that was the cause or not, it was diagnosed all the way from the top of my head to the bottom of my spinal cord—anything from a spinal cord or brain tumor, to disseminated sclerosis. In 1925 I went to the great cord and brain surgeon, Harvey Cushing, who tried to diagnose it. But he couldn't get definite enough diagnosis to operate. I went to others, including veterans' hospitals.

Anyhow, not at the solicitation of friends, I ran for Tax Collector. It was a big job, and I think I did fairly well. It was from that office that I ran for Congress. I think I am the only Tax Collector who ever was elected to a high parliamentary body. If you don't believe it, go to the museum in New York and you will see stone carvings of the tax collector beating the people, then you will see him getting beat and being run out of town.

Possibly the reason I got elected was that I knew no one was going to ask me to run. Once before I had wanted to run, but I hadn't gotten any encouragement. My friends assured me that it would be too great a loss to the city for me to go away to Washington. I mention this so that all the budding "liberals" and progressives who expect to do something for their country should get out and beat the bushes and take after their opponents. Moreover, no one in public office should ever expect any gratitude or mercy.

By the time of the congressional campaign my health had gotten much worse. I staggered when I walked, and though by then I was on the war wagon, many accused me of being a drunk. It was painful campaigning, a besides being called a wicked red, the charge of being a gentleman of the bottle made it tough.

But I had a scheme in mind. Although I was working on a close margin of life, I figured I would fight it out, win, get operated on, and then enter Congress. I never denied being a drunkard, because to have done so would have necessitated a statement concerning my health. But now that it is over, I can beat myself on the chest and tell of "my operation" and at the same time give advice to younger men never to touch the bottle.

Immediately after the primary I went to Washington to check some affairs so I could go over to Mayo's and take a chance on an operation. I walked over to the Senate, and just as I entered Senator Morris Sheppard's office, I was arrested by the Capitol Police.

I was angry and demanded to know why. The policeman whispered to the Senator.

The Senator, who brought Prohibition to the country, and who is deadly conscientious, and one of the best men in the Senate, said with a smile:

"That's all right, officer, I'll take care of him."

I then realized I was being arrested for being drunk. But I finally convinced the officer, and the Senator. The officer was very sorry. He is still on the force, and now he always asks me about my health every time he sees me. Even the Senator was convinced when I had to have the operation.

Anyhow, after final election, Mrs. Maverick and I went up to Mayo's, where I was operated on. It was a spinal cord tumor—and since every American is proud of his "operation"—I suppose it's all right to mention it. It is what the doctors call a laminectomy. In my case they cut off parts of five vertabrae, and took out the tumor.

It was a cruel and bitter affair. But the doctors pulled me across the line, and it was one of the best jobs in the history of American surgery. When I came to Congress I almost had to be carried around for a while, and I walked with two canes. But in about five or six months I was completely well and I was very proud of the work. But it had taken nearly eighteen years to clear up the wounds and the aftermath of war.

It is a damned outrage that a poor man can't go to a doctor. Mayo's fee was low. Their work was far more than satisfactory. But why can't every man be operated on, when he needs it? Why should poor people watch their children die? Why should a man in moderate circumstances have to die because he hasn't got the money for an operation and hospital expenses?

The fact that doctors as a class do more real charity than those of any other profession is no excuse in a civilized country. To lie down and die, or see one of your children die because you haven't got the money is to me a ghastly thing. Medical service must be available to every human being, some way.