“Bear in mind,” said he when, after that last election, I again had the town in my grasp, “bear in mind the welfare and the wishes of the public, and use your power consistently therewith.”
“Now, why?” said I. “The public of which you tell me lies in two pieces, the minority and the majority. It is to the latter's welfare—the good of the machine—I shall address myself. Be sure, my acts will gain the plaudits of my own people, while I have only to go the road you speak of to be made the target of their anger. As to the minority—those who have vilified me, and who still would crush me if they but had the strength—why, then, as Morton says, I owe them no more than William owed the Saxons when after Hastings he had them under his feet.”
When the new administration was in easy swing, and I had time to look about me, I bethought me of Blackberry and those three millions taken from the weakness and the wickedness of young Van Flange. I would have those millions back or know the secret of it.
With a nod here and a hand-toss there—for the shrug of my shoulders or the lift of my brows had grown to have a definition among my people—I brewed tempests for Blackberry. The park department discovered it in a trespass; the health board gave it notice of the nonsanitary condition of its cars; the street commissioner badgered it with processes because of violations of laws and ordinances; the coroner, who commonly wore a gag, gave daily news of what folk were killed or maimed through the wantonness of Blackberry; while my corporation counsel bestirred himself as to whether or no, for this neglect or that invasion of public right, the Blackberry charter might not be revoked.
In the face of these, the president of Blackberry—he of the Hebrew cast and clutch—stood sullenly to his guns. He would not yield; he would not pay the price of peace; he would not return those millions, although he knew well the argument which was the ground-work of his griefs.
The storm I unchained beat sorely, but he made no white-flag signs. I admired his fortitude, while I multiplied my war.
It was Morton who pointed to that final feather which broke the camel's back.
“Really, old chap,” observed Morton, that immortal eyeglass on nose and languid hands outspread, “really, you haven't played your trumps, don't y' know.”
“What then?” cried I, for my heart was growing hot.
“You recall my saying to our friend Bronson that, when I had a chap against me whom I couldn't buy, I felt about to discover his fad or his fear—I was speaking about changing a beggar's name, and all that, don't y' know?”