“That guy that went in there ain’t like us,” explained Tommy Deveran, whose florid oratory had been the machine’s prized asset until the drift of political straws had guided him toward reform. “He wears silk half-hose where you an’ me wears cotton socks. This here is a classy, high-brow administration. Myself not bein’ no cotillion-leader, I’m goin’ to beat it!” The Hon. Thomas rose and beat it in all the majesty of affronted dignity.
Inside, Mr. Copewell threw his hat and stick on the desk and himself into a chair. He commenced to speak and suddenly stopped. A fine flow of high-pressure language was arrested by the sight of Chief-of-Police Swager, sitting just across the room. The Chief rose and took up his gold-trimmed cap. The new administration had added to the pulchritude of its police officials by more jaunty uniforms. The Colonel felt conscious of a distinguished and military bearing.
“I’m going to shift Captain McGarvey from the Tenderloin—if you don’t object,” he announced.
Mr. Burrow did not object. He did not know who Captain McGarvey was, but that fact he did not mention. “What for, Chief, what for?” he inquired brightly. His air was that of a field-marshal for whom no little thing is too small to merit consideration.
“Well,” thoughtfully pursued Colonel Swager, “I doubt if he’s on the level, though I haven’t got him dead to rights yet—can’t prefer charges. McGarvey’s a machine hold-over and he’s likely to be a little blind in one eye where some of the thieves and yeggs that used to buy protection are concerned. ‘Rat’ Connors was seen last night, down at Corkhill’s place. You know ‘Rat’ Connors?”
Mr. Burrow had not that honor. The name was not on the membership books of his clubs. “Let’s see—” he repeated carefully, “Rat Connors, Rat Connors. I don’t, at the moment, seem to place him.”
“Second-story man, drum-snuffer, stone-pincher, porch-climber—general all-round expert,” illuminatingly itemized the Chief, “variously wanted for a large assortment of felonies. McGarvey ought to have ditched him.”
“Ah, yes, quite so,” agreed Mr. Burrow. Mr. Copewell petulantly shifted in his chair. These matters seemed to him extremely trivial in view of his own more engrossing affairs.
“This Connors party,” enlarged the Chief, halting a moment by the door and inspecting with pride the gold oak-leaves that went around his cap like a garland of greatness, “he’s a solemn little runt with one front tooth broke and one finger gone off the left hand. He’s got straight black hair and a face like a rat. He looks like a half-witted kid, but he’s there with the goods.”
Mr. Burrow nodded. “Go right after him, Chief,” he authorized, “I give you carte blanche.”