“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.