“The boys all work in the brew’ry. He says they’ll blame him fer bein’ out o’ jobs.”
Keighley spat. “It’s up to him. It ain’t up to me.”
“His depaty’s been in there, crowin’ over ’m. He’ll be gettin’ elected to Dolger’s place.... He didn’t try to save the brew’ry. He says Dolger let the soap works burn a-purpose.... The whole dang thing’s been botched.”
“Sure it’s been botched,” Keighley said. “What’d yuh expect? They’re too busy playin’ politics to put out fires.”
Noonan’s mouth shut. He stroked his chin thoughtfully with a thumb and forefinger, looking down his nose. Then he went back to the wheelhouse and lit a cigar.
He did not come out again until the boat turned homeward, with the sun setting smoke-red over the hills of Nohunk. The wreck of Dolger’s career stretched from the ruins of the soap works to the blackened shell of the brewery. He had been helped to his home by a squad of loyal officers; his deputy was wearing his white fire-hat; and, in the road that had marked his line of battle, the indignant citizens of Nohunk were planning a revolution in his fire-department.
Noonan watched them sadly from the taffrail. Dolger’s woes lay heavy on him. Behind him Keighley said:
“Between the boys o’ the soap-works fightin’ the boys o’ the brew’ry, an’ Chief Dolger scrappin’ with Depaty Hencks, there ain’t much left o’ Nohunk.”
Noonan did not reply.
Keighley took a turn around the deck. When he came back to the stern, he said: “Them days is past fer us, Tim. We don’t wear red shirts nowadays. We don’t elect our Chief. We get a day’s pay fer a day’s work. An’ we got no use fer politics.”