“Good! I want everything aboveboard. We can either of us tell the whole truth if it should seem necessary.”
When Mr. Bulger had left us, I turned to my friend McCarthy and said:
“You're sure to be elected now.”
“Of course I am,” said the gentleman. “But he's got some work on his hands. I cannot understand his coming here. To begin with, he'll have to settle that strike for me, and it may not be so easy. He's got to unravel a lot of his own knitting or pay the forfeit. I don't think he knows what it means.”
We both laughed for a moment, after which he went on:
“It's his funeral—not mine. A gentleman can bet, but he could not make a bargain for a seat in the legislature, and it's undignified and immoral to pay for votes. Bulger has got to do the work.”
I regret sometimes that Mr. McCarthy had not then the surer light that came in due time. He was very human, so do not expect too much of him.
That day our evening paper contained this announcement:
Vanderbilt Owns the Harlem Road—Will
The Steamboat King Lead the Iron