The Boss, and How He Came to Rule New York. Lewis Alfred Henry

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      Gaffney made his money with flour and horse feed and hay and similar goods. Also, as Old Mike said, Gaffney was ambitious. It was within the week, when a midnight shower of stones smashed sash and glass and laid waste that offensive merchant’s place of business. Gaffney restored his sash and glass only to invite a second midnight storm of stones. Three times were Gaffney’s windows smashed by hands unknown; and no police officer would go within two blocks of Gaffney’s. In the end, Gaffney came to Big Kennedy. The latter met him with a hectoring laugh.

      “Why do you come to me?” asked Big Kennedy. “Somebody’s been trying to smash the windows of my leadership for over a year, but I never went howling about it to you.”

      Gaffney showed not a little shaken. He asked, in a manner sullen yet beaten, what he should do.

      “I’d get out of th’ ward,” replied Big Kennedy as cool as ice. “Somebody’s got it in for you. Now a man that’ll throw a brick will light a match, d’ye see, an’ a feed store would burn like a tar barrel.”

      “If I could sell out, I’d quit,” said Gaffney.

      “Well,” responded Big Kennedy, “I always like to help a friend.”

      Grocer Fogel bought Gaffney’s store, making a bargain.

      This iron-bound lesson in practical politics I dwell on in full. I drew from it some notion of the stern character of that science. Old Mike, from the pinnacles of his hard experience, looked down to justify it.

      “Gaffney would do th’ same,” said Old Mike, “if his ar-rm was long enough. Politics is a game where losers lose all; it’s like war, shure, only no one’s kilt – at any rate, not so many.”

      As the days drew on, I grew in favor with Big Kennedy, and the blossom thereof took this color.

      “Why don’t you start a club?” he asked one afternoon, as we sat in his sanctum. “You could bring two hundred young fellows together, couldn’t you?”

      “Yes,” I replied. I spoke doubtfully; the suggestion was of the sharpest, and gave me no space to think. It was one, too, which asked questions of the kind that don’t answer themselves. “But where would they meet?” I put this after a pause.

      “There’s the big lodgeroom over my saloon,” and Big Kennedy tossed his stubby thumb towards the ceiling. “You could meet there. There’s a dumb waiter from the bar to send up beer and smokes.”

      “How about the Tin Whistles?” I hinted. “Would they do to build on?”

      “Leave the Tin Whistles out. They’re all right as shoulder-hitters, an’ a swifter gang to help at the polls, or break up the opposition’s meetin’s, never walked the streets. But for a play of this kind, they’re a little off color. Your Tin Whistles can join, man by man, but if they do they must sing low. They mustn’t try to give the show; it’s the back seat for them. What you’re out for now is the respectable young workin’-man racket; that’s the lay.”

      “But where’s the money?” said I. “These people I have in mind haven’t much money.”

      “Of course not,” retorted Big Kennedy confidently, “an’ what little they have they want for beer. But listen: You get the room free. Then once a year your club gives an excursion on the river; it ought to sell hundreds of tickets because there’ll be hundreds of officeholders, an’ breweries, an’ saloon keepers, an’ that sort who’ll be crazy to buy’em. If they aint crazy to start with, you ought to be able to make’em crazy th’ first election that comes ‘round. The excursion should bring three thousand dollars over an’ above expenses, d’ye see. Then you can give balls in the winter an’ sell tickets. Then there’s subscriptions an’ hon’ry memberships. You’ll ketch on; there’s lots of ways to skin th’ cat. You can keep th’ club in clover an’ have some of the long green left. That’s settled then; you organize a young men’s club. You be president an’ treasurer; see to that. An’ now,” here Big Kennedy took me by the shoulder and looked me instructively in the eye, “it’s time for you to be clinchin’ onto some stuff for yourself. This club’s goin’ to take a lot of your time. It’ll make you do plenty of work. You’re no treetoad; you can’t live on air an’ scenery.” Big Kennedy’s look deepened, and he shook me as one who demands attention. “You’ll be president and treasurer, particularly treasurer; and I’ll chip you in this piece of advice. A good cook always licks his fingers.” Here he winked deeply.

      This long speech was not thrown away. Big Kennedy, having delivered himself, lapsed into silence, while I sat ruminating ways and means and what initiatory steps I should take.

      “What shall we call it?” I asked, as I arose to go.

      “Give it an Indian name,” said Big Kennedy. “S’p-pose you call it the Red Jacket Association.”

      Within the fortnight the Red Jackets held their maiden meeting. It was an hour rife of jubilation, fellowship, and cheer. While abstinence from drink was my guiding phrase, I made no point of that kind in the conduct of others, and a nearby brewery having contributed unlimited beer those whom it pleased lacked no reason for a light heart.

      As Big Kennedy had advised, I was chosen for the double responsibilities of president and treasurer. I may say in my own compliment, however, that these honors came drifting to my feet. There were reasons for this aside from any stiffness of heart or fist-virtues which might be mine. I have said that I was by disposition as taciturn as a tree, and this wondrous gift of silence earned me the name of wisdom, I was looked upon as one whose depth was rival to the ocean’s. Stronger still, as the argument by which I rose, was my sobriety. The man who drinks, and whether it be little or much, never fails to save his great respect for him who sets whisky aside.

      “An’ now,” remarked Big Kennedy, when the club had found fortunate birth, “with these Red Jackets to make the decent front, th’ Tin Whistles to fall back on for the rough work, and Gaffney out of th’ way, I call th’ ward cleaned up. I’ll tell you this, my son: after th’ next election you shall have an office, or there’s no such man as Big John Kennedy.” He smote the table with his heavy hand until the glasses danced.

      “But I won’t be of age,” I suggested.

      “What’s the difference?” said Big Kennedy. “We’ll play that you are, d’ye see. There’ll be no one fool enough to talk about your age if I’m at your side. We’ll make it a place in the dock department; that’ll be about your size. S’ppose we say a perch where there’s twelve hundred dollars a year, an’ nothin’ to do but draw th’ scads an’ help your friends.”

      Jimmy the Blacksmith was an under-captain of Big Kennedy’s and prevailed as vote-master in the northern end of the ward. Within certain fixed frontiers, which ran on one side within a block of my home, it was the business of Jimmy the Blacksmith to have watch and ward. He had charge of what meetings were held, and under the thumb of Big Kennedy carried forward the campaign, and on election day got out the vote.

      Having given the question its share of thought, I determined for myself on a forward, upward step. My determination – heart and soul – became agate-hard to drive Jimmy the Blacksmith from his place, and set up my own rule over that slender kingdom.

      Nor would I say aught to Big Kennedy of this private war which I meditated. Not that he would have interfered either to thwart or aid me, but by the ethics of the situation, to give him such notice was neither proper nor expected. To fight Jimmy the Blacksmith for his crown was not only right by every rule of ward justice, but it was the thing encouraged СКАЧАТЬ