“Who's McCue?” he repeated. “He's one of them mugwump pets. He makes a bluff about bein' honest, too, does McCue. I think he'd join a church, if he took a notion it would stiffen his pull.”
“But is he a man of strength? Can he make trouble?”
“Trouble?” This with contempt. “When it comes to makin' trouble, he's a false alarm.”
“Well,” said I, in conclusion, “McCue and the dominie are going into your precinct.”
“I'll tell you one thing,” returned Gothecore, his face clouding up, “I think it's that same Reverend Bronson who gives Melting Moses th' office to dog me. I'll put Mr. Whitechoker onto my opinion of th' racket, one of these days.”
“You'd better keep your muzzle on,” I retorted. “Your mouth will get you into trouble yet.”
Gothecore went away grumbling, and much disposed to call himself ill-used.
During the next few days I was to receive frequent visits from the Reverend Bronson. His mission was to enlist me in his crusade against the gamblers. I put him aside on that point.
“You should remember,” said I, as pleasantly as I well could, “that I am a politician, not a policeman. I shall think of my party, and engage in no unusual moral exploits of the sort you suggest. The town doesn't want it done.”
“The question,” responded the Reverend Bronson warmly, “is one of law and morality, and not of the town's desires. You say you are a politician, and not a policeman. If it comes to that, I am a preacher, and not a policeman. Still, I no less esteem it my duty to interfere for right. I see no difference between your position and my own.”