The Mayor was biting his moustache. “Sit down, Chief. I want some advice.... Lord, I wish Barklay wasn’t off on his vacation.... Why, I’ve just had a threat from this Reform League.”
“Threat? What kind of a threat?”
The Mayor didn’t reply immediately; he continued to chew his moustache. “You know that fool Sunday law––was passed ’way back in the year One?”
“Sure. 147. Dead letter.”
“They say it’s got to be enforced.”
The Chief laughed boisterously. “That’s a big order.”
“I know it is. The mass of the people don’t want it––never did. But in these days there isn’t a Councillor I know’d put a motion to repeal it, or amend it. Probition’s scared ’em. They don’t know what the people want, so they’re laying mighty low.... Same time, this League’s getting pretty strong. Mix, and John Starkweather’s sister, and ex-Senator Kaplan, Richards of the First National, Dr. Smillie of the Church crowd, old man Fredericks of National Metal––know what they handed me today?”
“Let her come.”
The Mayor snorted with disgust. “Hinted if I didn’t begin enforcement day after tomorrow they’d appeal to the Governor.... Lord, I wish Barklay was here.”