The Other Man From Hope

It's hard not to like Mike Huckabee. Next to his better known, better-funded rivals—Mitt Romney, a candidate so carefully groomed and scripted that he can appear synthetic; or Rudy Giuliani, whose prosecutor's impatience seems to simmer just beneath his skin—Huckabee comes across as an easygoing, down-to-earth guy. The former Arkansas governor is self-deprecating, approachable and genuinely funny. He plays electric bass in a rock band. He tells aw-shucks stories about his boyhood in rural Arkansas. A former Southern Baptist preacher, he's a natural orator who speaks without notes, and after giving a speech he'll happily hang around for hours chatting with whoever hap-pens to come up to him. "I'm a conservative," he likes to say, "but I'm not mean about it."

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As his opponents attack one another on the campaign trail, Huckabee has largely held back. A lot of candidates in his position—he lags behind the front runners in money and the polls—would try to be provocative, make some noise to get attention. But Huckabee has been content to play the role of the B- or C-tier candidate, convinced that the top contenders would rough up each other enough to turn off voters, who would then give him a second look. That's just what seems to be happening. In recent weeks, Huckabee's campaign has surged a bit. He jumped to 7 percent in the new NEWSWEEK Poll, up from just 2 percent in August. In all-important Iowa, he is now running a close second to Mitt Romney.

Huckabee doesn't owe his new success to expensive TV spots or marathon campaign outings. Unlike Romney, who has practically made Iowa his second home and has spent millions on radio and TV ads, Huckabee has visited the state just three times since August. His state campaign headquarters is a low-rent storefront in downtown Des Moines. Huckabee seems to be gaining in the polls almost in spite of himself. (His eight-person Iowa staff seems overwhelmed. His top guy in the state, buried under a barrage of media requests, demurs: "I'm not so good with this e-mail stuff.") Hillary Clinton doesn't think twice about raking in $2 million in a night of fund-raising. Until last week Huckabee had raised a little more than $2 million—total. Huckabee tries to turn that to his advantage: he's not rich or slick. He's a regular guy, the sort you wouldn't mind seeing on TV for the next four or eight years.

Yet until now, Huckabee has had it easy. He hasn't had to respond to an attack from another candidate (no one has bothered). Nor has he been the subject of critical stories by the national media (which treats him as an amiable oddity). He hasn't been pressed about his shortcomings, most notably his lack of foreign-policy experience. He struggles with weighty international problems, including terrorism and Iraq—concerns at the top of voters' minds.

Still, a good showing in Iowa could make him a contender, especially if it propels him into New Hampshire, the first primary. Already, people are taking him seriously as a possible veep pick. His solid social-conservative credentials could provide cover for a pro-choice, pro-gay-rights East Coaster like Giuliani. The former New York mayor, who in the past didn't pay Huckabee any attention at all, now says he has "great respect" for him. Huckabee has returned the favor: on the campaign trail, he's stopped saying GOP voters won't nominate a Republican who supports abortion rights. Asked if he'd consider running as Giuliani's running mate, Huckabee politely declined to answer in a recent interview with NEWSWEEK.

Huckabee isn't ready to settle for No. 2 just yet. He's never been one to doubt his own abilities. Growing up in Hope, Ark.—for Huckabee, it's Bill Clinton who's the "other guy" from Hope—Huckabee was popular and a good student. At home, money was tight. His father was a mechanic and his mother a clerk at the local gas company, and they sometimes took on extra work to make the rent on their tiny house near the railroad tracks.