“Let us take the story first,” I suggested.
We both remembered it; so, likewise, will several American friends of that excellent raconteur, Horace Porter, one of New York’s brightest post-prandial orators.
Irving had been making inquiries about the city government of New York, and remarking upon the curious little wooden houses away up at the further end of New York city.
“Oh,” said Porter, “those places belong to the last of the Manhattan squatters. Most of them are occupied by families, who, as a rule, pay little or no rent at all. They are on the outskirts of progress. As the city extends into their district they disappear, seeking ‘fresh woods and pastures new.’ Nevertheless some of them become quite firmly established there. They are included, for voting purposes, in the Twenty-fourth ward of the city. The houses, as you have observed, are not architecturally beautiful. All the inhabitants keep fowls and animals in their basements or cellars. As a rule nobody repairs or attends to their abodes. Occasionally in wet weather they could bathe in their cellars. Recently one of the most important men in the district was a Mr. Mulldoon, whose very practical views of city politics will be gathered by the story I am going to tell you, which also illustrates the local troubles from a sanitary point of view. Mulldoon’s premises were flooded. He was advised to apply to the Commissioner of Public Works on the subject, and to use his political influence in the matter; and he did. Entering the office of the commissioner, he said:—
“‘My name is Mulldoon. I live in the Twenty-fourth ward; I conthrol forty votes there; I kape hens; the wather has inundated my cellar, and I want it pumped out at the public expinse.’
“‘We have no machinery to do that kind of work; it does not belong to our department,’ said the officer.
“‘And be jabers if I don’t get that wather removed it will go hard wid the party. I’ll cast thim forty votes for a Dutchman.’
“‘You had better go to the fire department.’