Meanwhile, at the head of the great study table in his Pompton Avenue “Mausoleum” sat Caleb Conover, Railroader. And about him, on either side of the board, like feudal retainers of old, were grouped the pick of his lieutenants and henchmen. A rare coterie they were, these Knights of Graft. Separated by ten thousand varying interests, social strata and aspirations, they were as one on the main issue—their blind adherence to the Boss and to the lightest of his orders.
This impelling force was difficult of defining. Love, fear, trust, desire for spoils? Perhaps a little of all four; perhaps much; perhaps an indefinable something apart from these. For the power that draws and holds men to a political leader who possesses neither eloquence, charm nor the qualities of popularity has never been—can never be—clearly defined. Not one great Boss in ten can boast these qualities.
Yet, whatever the reason of Caleb Conover’s dominance, none could for a moment doubt its presence. So ever-present was it that it had long since choked down all opposition from within his own ranks. Once, years before—as the story is still related—when he had first claimed, fought for and won his party preëminence, certain district leaders, eight in all, had plotted his downfall, and had privately selected one of their number to fill his shoes. News of the closed-door meeting which was to ratify this deposition was brought to Caleb by faithful Shevlin. The Railroader, without a word, had started for the back room of the saloon where the conference was in progress. Stalking in on the conspirators, he had gained the centre of their circle before they were well aware of his presence. Hat on head, cigar in mouth, he had swept the ring of faces with his light, steely eyes, noting each man there in one instant-brief glance as he did so. Then, twisting the cigar into one corner of his mouth, he had brought down his fist on the table and demanded:
“How many of you people are with ME?”
Like a pack of eager schoolboys the entire eight were upon their feet, clamoring their fealty. Then, without another word or look, the Master had stamped out of the room; leaving the erstwhile malcontents, as one of them afterward expressed it:
“Standin’ there like a bunch of boiled sheepsheads without a thought but to shake hands with ourselves for havin’ such a grand Boss as Caleb Conover.”
At the Boss’s right in to-day’s conclave sat Billy Shevlin, most trusted and adoring of all his followers. At his left was Guy Bourke, Alderman and the Boss’s jackal. Next to Billy was Bonham, Mayor of Granite, and next Giacomo Baltazzi, who held the whole Italian section force of the C. G. & X. and the Sicilian quarter of Granite in the hollow of his unwashed hand. Beyond was Nicholas Caine, proprietor of the Star, and to his right Beiser, the Democratic State Chairman. Between a second newspaper editor and the President of the Board of Aldermen lounged Kerrigan, the Ghetto saloon-keeper. A sprinkling of railroad men, heelers and district leaders made up the remainder. Conover was speaking:
“And that’s the layout,” said he. “And that’s why I’m not content for this to be just a plain ‘win.’ Two years ago I thought Shearn would be our best man for governor. So I gave the word, and Shearn got in with a decent majority. But it’s got to be a landslide this time, and not a trick’s to be overlooked in the whole hand. Nick, you know the line of editorial policy to start in to-morrow’s Star. And be on the lookout for the first break in any of the League’s speeches. It’s easier to think of a fool thing than not to say it, and those Reform jays are always putting their feet in their mouths when they try to preach politics. And, knowing nothing about the game, they’re sure to talk a heap. They never seem to realize that the man who really practices politics hasn’t time to preach it.”
“I understand,” answered Caine. “Print, as usual, a ‘spread’ on the windy, blundering speeches, and forget to report the others. Same as when——”
“Sure. And pass the ‘press-gag’ sign up-State, too. Standish is certain to make a tour. Beiser,” turning to the portly State Chairman, “I want the county caucuses two weeks from Saturday. I’ve an idea we can work the same old ‘snap’ move in more’n half of them. Pass it on to the county chairman to treble last year’s floaters, and to work the ‘back door’ the way we did in Bowden County in ’97. They understand their business pretty well, most of ’em. And I’ll have Shevlin and Bourke jack up those that don’t, and learn ’em their little lines. Two weeks from Saturday, then. That’s understood? It’ll give us all the time we need, if we hustle. Never mind the other State or city candidates or Congressmen. Those jobs’ll take care of themselves. If the wrong men get into the Assembly or Congress, they’ll get licked into shape quick enough. We’re all right there. I want the whole shove to be made on the Governorship this year. Pass it on! Baltazzi, I hear those dagoes of yours are grouching again. What’s——”