The Boss, and How He Came to Rule New York

“Tammany Hall has fallen into the hands of thieves!” shouted Big Kennedy, in a short but pointed address which he made to his clansmen. “As an honest member of Tammany, I am fighting to rescue the organization.”

In its way, the move was a master-stroke. It gave us the high ground, since it left us still in the party, still in Tammany Hall. It gave us a position and a battle-cry, and sent us into the conflict with a cleaner fame than it had been our wont to wear.

In the beginning, the reputable old gentleman paid a pompous visit to Big Kennedy. Like all who saw that leader, the reputable old gentleman came to Big Kennedy’s saloon. This last was a point upon which Big Kennedy never failed to insist.

“Th’ man,” said Big Kennedy, “who’s too good to go into a saloon, is too good to go into politics; if he’s goin’ to dodge th’ one, he’d better duck the’ other.”

The reputable old gentleman met this test of the barrooms, and qualified for politics without a quaver. Had a barroom been the shelter of his infancy, he could not have worn a steadier assurance. As he entered, he laid a bill on the bar for the benefit of the public then and there athirst. Next he intimated a desire to talk privately with Big Kennedy, and set his course for the sanctum as though by inspiration. Big Kennedy called me to the confab; closing the door behind us, we drew together about the table.

“Let’s cut out th’ polite prelim’naries,” said Big Kennedy, “an’ come down to tacks. How much stuff do you feel like blowin’ in?”

“How much should it take?” asked the reputable old gentleman.

“Say twenty thousand!” returned Big Kennedy, as cool as New Year’s Day.

“Twenty thousand dollars!” repeated the reputable old gentleman, with wide eyes. “Will it call for so much as that?”

“If you’re goin’ to put in money, put in enough to win. There’s no sense puttin’ in just enough to lose. Th’ other fellows will come into th’ district with money enough to burn a wet dog. We’ve got to break even with ‘em, or they’ll have us faded from th’ jump.”

“But what can you do with so much?” asked the reputable old gentleman dismally. “It seems a fortune! What would you do with it?”

“Mass meetin’s, bands, beer, torches, fireworks, halls; but most of all, buy votes.”

“Buy votes!” exclaimed the reputable old gentleman, his cheek paling.

“Buy ‘em by th’ bunch, like a market girl sells radishes!” Then, seeing the reputable old gentleman’s horror: “How do you s’ppose you’re goin’ to get votes? You don’t think that these dock-wallopers an’ river pirates are stuck on you personally, do you?”

“But their interest as citizens! I should think they’d look at that!”

“Their first interest as citizens,” observed Big Kennedy, with a cynical smile, “is a five-dollar bill.”

“But do you think it right to purchase votes?” asked the reputable old gentleman, with a gasp.

“Is it right to shoot a man? No. Is it right to shoot a man if he’s shootin’ at you? Yes. Well, these mugs are goin’ to buy votes, an’ keep at it early an’ late. Which is why I say it’s dead right to buy votes to save yourself. Besides, you’re th’ best man; it’s th’ country’s welfare we’re protectin’, d’ye see!”

The reputable old gentleman remained for a moment in deep thought. Then he got upon his feet to go.

“I’ll send my son to talk with you,” he said. Then faintly: “I guess this will be all right.”

“There’s somethin’ you’ve forgot,” said Big Kennedy with a chuckle, as he shook hands with the reputable old gentleman when the latter was about to depart; “there’s a bet you’ve overlooked.” Then, as the other seemed puzzled: “You aint got off your bluff about bein’ a taxpayer. But, I understand! This is exec’tive session, an’ that crack about bein’ a taxpayer is more of a public utterance. You’re keepin’ it for th’ stump, most likely.”

“I’ll send my son to you to-night,” repeated the reputable old gentleman, too much in the fog of Big Kennedy’s generous figures to heed his jests about taxpayers. “He’ll be here about eight o’clock.”

“That’s right!” said Big Kennedy. “The sooner we get th’ oil, th’ sooner we’ll begin to light up.”

The reputable old gentleman kept his word concerning his son and that young gentleman’s advent. The latter was with us at eight, sharp, and brought two others of hard appearance to bear him company as a kind of bodyguard. The young gentleman was slight and superfine, with eyeglass, mustache, and lisp. He accosted Big Kennedy, swinging a dainty cane the while in an affected way.

“I’m Mr. Morton – Mr. James Morton,” he drawled. “You know my father.”

Once in the sanctum, and none save Big Kennedy and myself for company, young Morton came to the question.

“My father’s running for Congress. But he’s old-fashioned; he doesn’t understand these things.” The tones were confident and sophisticated. I began to see how the eyeglass, the cane, and the lisp belied our caller. Under his affectations, he was as keen and cool a hand as Big Kennedy himself. “No,” he repeated, taking meanwhile a thick envelope from his frock-coat, “he doesn’t understand. The idea of money shocks him, don’t y’ know.”

“That’s it!” returned Big Kennedy, sympathetically. “He’s old-fashioned; he thinks this thing is like runnin’ to be superintendent of a Sunday school. He aint down to date.”

“Here,” observed our visitor, tapping the table with the envelope, and smiling to find himself and Big Kennedy a unit as to the lamentable innocence of his father, “here are twenty one-thousand-dollar bills. I didn’t draw a check for reasons you appreciate. I shall trust you to make the best use of this money. Also, I shall work with you through the campaign.”

With that, the young gentleman went his way, humming a tune; and all as though leaving twenty thousand dollars in the hands of some chance-sown politician was the common employment of his evenings. When he was gone, Big Kennedy opened the envelope. There they were; twenty one-thousand-dollar bills. Big Kennedy pointed to them as they lay on the table.

“There’s the reformer for you!” he said. “He’ll go talkin’ about Tammany Hall; but once he himself goes out for an office, he’s ready to buy a vote or burn a church! But say! that young Morton’s all right!” Here Big Kennedy’s manner betrayed the most profound admiration. “He’s as flossy a proposition as ever came down th’ pike.” Then his glance recurred doubtfully to the treasure. “I wish he’d brought it ‘round by daylight. I’ll have to set up with this bundle till th’ bank opens. Some fly guy might cop a sneak on it else. There’s a dozen of my best customers, any of whom would croak a man for one of them bills.”

The campaign went forward rough and tumble. Big Kennedy spent money like water, the Red Jackets never slept, while the Tin Whistles met the plug-uglies of the enemy on twenty hard-fought fields.

The only move unusual, however, was one made by that energetic exquisite, young Morton. Young Morton, in the thick from the first, went shoulder to shoulder with Big Kennedy and myself. One day he asked us over to his personal headquarters.

“You know,” said he, with his exasperating lisp, and daintily adjusting his glasses, “how there’s a lot of negroes to live over this way – quite a settlement of them.”

“Yes,” returned Big Kennedy, “there’s about three hundred votes among ‘em. I’ve never tried to cut in on ‘em, because there’s no gettin’ a nigger to vote th’ Tammany ticket.”

“Three hundred votes, did you say?” lisped the youthful manager. “I shall get six hundred.” Then, to a black who was hovering about: “Call in those new recruits.”

Six young blacks, each with a pleasant grin, marched into the room.

“There,” said young Morton, inspecting them with the close air of a critic, “they look like the real thing, don’t they? Don’t you think they’ll pass muster?”

“An’ why not?” said Big Kennedy. “I take it they’re game to swear to their age, an’ have got sense enough to give a house number that’s in th’ district?”

“It’s not that,” returned young Morton languidly. “But these fellows aren’t men, old chap, they’re women, don’t y’ know! It’s the clothes does it. I’m going to dress up the wenches in overalls and jumpers; it’s my own little idea.”

“Say!” said Big Kennedy solemnly, as we were on our return; “that young Morton beats four kings an’ an ace. He’s a bird! I never felt so much like takin’ off my hat to a man in my life. An’ to think he’s a Republican!” Here Big Kennedy groaned over genius misplaced. “There’s no use talkin’; he ought to be in Tammany Hall.”

The district which was to determine the destinies of the reputable old gentleman included two city wards besides the one over which Big Kennedy held sway. The campaign was not two weeks old before it stood patent to a dullest eye that Big Kennedy, while crowded hard, would hold his place as leader in spite of the Tammany Chief and the best efforts he could put forth. When this was made apparent, while the strife went forward as fiercely as before, the Chief sent overtures to Big Kennedy. If that rebellionist would return to the fold of the machine, bygones would be bygones, and a feast of love and profit would be spread before him. Big Kennedy, when the olive branch was proffered, sent word that he would meet the Chief next day. He would be at a secret place he named.

“An’ tell him to come alone,” said Big Kennedy to the messenger. “That’s th’ way I’ll come; an’ if he goes to ringin’ in two or three for this powwow, you can say to him in advance it’s all off.”

Following the going of the messenger, Big Kennedy fell into a brown study.

“Do you think you’ll deal in again with the Chief and the machine?” I asked.

“It depends on what’s offered. A song an’ dance won’t get me.”

“But how about the Mortons? Would you abandon them?”

Big Kennedy looked me over with an eye of pity. Then he placed his hand on my head, as on that far-off day in court.

“You’re learnin’ politics,” said Big Kennedy slowly, “an’ you’re showin’ speed. But let me tell you: You must chuck sentiment. Quit th’ Mortons? I’ll quit ‘em in a holy minute if th’ bid comes strong enough.”

“Would you quit your friends?”