"How's this?" asked Gibson, seating himself at his desk, turning toward the camera in his swivel chair and holding a sheet of letter paper as though he had been disturbed by the photographer in the middle of the reading of an important document.
"Fine, hold it," said the photographer. The flashlight boomed, sending a puff of white smoke into the air.
"You had better take another, I blinked my eyes that time," said Gibson.
"Gotcha before you blinked," the photographer explained. "Now one standing if you please, Mr. Gibson. Bend over a little. That's it, clinch your fist and raise it up as though you were going to hit someone. That's it. Fine, thank you."
The flashlight boomed again, filling the room with smoke.
"I dislike this business of posing for photographs," Gibson said. "I suppose it has to be, though."
Brennan tipped another wink to John. This time John winked back.
On their way back to the office John asked Brennan what he thought of Gibson and his statement.
"It's a story, a good one," said Brennan. "One of the kind that's always good. Wealthy young reformer wants to clean up town. Out to clean up the police department. It's always gone big since Roosevelt did it in New York. Lot of bromides in the statement 'hew to the line and let the chips fall where they may,' 'fair name of our great city being dragged in the mire' and stuff like that, but it'll get over."