The Democratic boss gave him an amiable and sympathetic look. Said he: “A man without money is always helpless, George. And the further he goes the surer he is to fall—and fall hard.”
“I know. I’ve got to have enough to make me independent.”
“How’re you goin’ to get it, my boy?”
“That’s what I’ve been trying to figure out,” confessed Helm. “Thus far I’ve not found the answer.”
“You’ll never find it where you’re looking,” said Branagan. “The people—they ain’t goin’ to give it to you. And you ain’t goin’ to get no law cases unless you’re in right. If you did get a good law case, it’d be decided against you.”
Helm’s expression was admission that the boss was right.
“And,” proceeded Branagan, “if you decided to make money by going into business—that’s slow, and anyhow you’ll have to graft or you won’t make nothin’. I tell you, George—— They call us politicians grafters. But the truth is we’re a damn sight honester than the business men or the lawyers—or any other class except them that ain’t got no chance to graft. The worst of us ain’t no worse than the best of them swell, big-figger grafters like Hollister and Powers. And the best of us is a hell of a sight honester. We’ve got some friendship in us. And I’ve yet to see the respectable, tony, church-going grafter I’d trust unless I had him in writing. What’s the matter nowadays with Al Reichman? Why, as long as he was just a plain low-down politician he kept his word and played square. But now that he’s married among the swells and has taken up the respectable end of the game, he’s as crooked as—as Judge Powers.”
“I can’t make up my mind what to do about Reichman,” said Branagan to Helm.
“Haven’t you got your orders from the crowd that’s behind both of you?” inquired Helm.
“Yes—to let him alone—to let up on him.”