The Boss, and How He Came to Rule New York

“There’s no thanks comin’,” said Big Kennedy, in his bluff way. “I had to break th’ Chief of that judge-an’-jury habit at th’ go-off. He’d have nailed me next.”

Big Kennedy and I, so to phrase it, were as prisoners of politics. Our feud with the Chief, as the days went by, widened to open war. Its political effect was to confine us to our own territory, and we undertook no enterprise which ran beyond our proper boundaries. It was as though our ward were a walled town. Outside all was peril; inside we were secure. Against the Chief and the utmost of his power, we could keep our own, and did. His word lost force when once it crossed our frontiers; his mandates fell to the ground.

Still, while I have described ourselves as ones in a kind of captivity, we lived sumptuously enough on our small domain. Big Kennedy went about the farming of his narrow acres with an agriculture deeper than ever. No enterprise that either invaded or found root in our region was permitted to go free, but one and all paid tribute. From street railways to push carts, from wholesale stores to hand-organs, they must meet our levy or see their interests pine. And thus we thrived.

However, for all the rich fatness of our fortunes, Big Kennedy’s designs against the Chief never cooled. On our enemy’s side, we had daily proof that he, in his planning, was equally sleepless. If it had not been for my seat in the Board of Aldermen, and our local rule of the police which was its corollary, the machine might have broken us down. As it was, we sustained ourselves, and the sun shone for our ward haymaking, if good weather went with us no farther.

One afternoon Big Kennedy of the suddenest broke upon me with an exclamation of triumph.

“I have it!” he cried; “I know the party who will show us every paper in that safe.”

“Who is he?” said I.

“I’ll bring him to you to-morrow night. He’s got a country place up th’ river, an’ never leaves it. He hasn’t been out of th’ house for almost five years, but I think I can get him to come.” Big Kennedy looked as though the situation concealed a jest. “But I can’t stand here talkin’; I’ve got to scatter for th’ Grand Central.”

Who should this gifted individual be? Who was he who could come in from a country house, which he had not quitted for five years, and hand us those private papers now locked, and fast asleep, within the Comptroller’s safe? The situation was becoming mysterious, and my patience would be on a stretch until the mystery was laid bare. The sure enthusiasm of Big Kennedy gave an impression of comfort. Big Kennedy was no hare-brained optimist, nor one to count his chickens before they were hatched.

When Big Kennedy came into the sanctum on the following evening, the grasp he gave me was the grasp of victory.

“It’s all over but th’ yellin’!” said he; “we’ve got them papers in a corner.”

Big Kennedy presented me to a shy, retiring person, who bore him company, and who took my hand reluctantly. He was not ill-looking, this stranger; but he had a furtive roving eye – the eye of a trapped animal. His skin, too, was of a yellow, pasty color, like bad piecrust, and there abode a damp, chill atmosphere about him that smelled of caves and caverns.

After I greeted him, he walked away in a manner strangely unsocial, and, finding a chair, sate himself down in a corner. He acted as might one detained against his will and who was not the master of himself. Also, there was something professional in it all, as though the purpose of his presence were one of business. I mentioned in a whisper the queer sallowness of the stranger.

“Sure!” said Big Kennedy. “It’s th’ prison pallor on him. I’ve got to let him lay dead for a week or ten days to give him time to cover it with a beard, as well as show a better haircut.”

“Who is he?” I demanded, my amazement beginning to sit up.

“He’s a gopher,” returned Big Kennedy, surveying the stranger with victorious complacency. “Yes, indeed; he can go through a safe like th’ grace of heaven through a prayer meetin’.”

“Is he a burglar?”

“Burglar? No!” retorted Big Kennedy disgustedly; “he’s an artist. Any hobo could go in with drills an’ spreaders an’ pullers an’ wedges, an’ crack a box. But this party does it by ear; just sits down before a safe, an’ fumbles an’ fools with it ten minutes, an’ swings her open. I tell you he’s a wonder! He knows th’ insides of a safe like a priest knows th’ insides of a prayer-book.”

“Where was he?” I asked. “Where did you pick him up?” and here I took a second survey of the talented stranger, who dropped his eyes on the floor.

“The Pen,” said Big Kennedy. “The warden an’ me are old side-partners, an’ I borrowed him. I knew where he was, d’ye see! He’s doin’ a stretch of five years for a drop-trick he turned in an Albany bank. That’s what comes of goin’ outside your specialty; he’d ought to have stuck to safes.”

“Aren’t you afraid he’ll run?” I said. “You can’t watch him night and day, and he’ll give you the slip.”

“No fear of his side-steppin’,” replied Big Kennedy confidently. “He’s only got six weeks more to go, an’ it wouldn’t pay to slip his collar for a little pinch of time like that. Besides, I’ve promised him five hundred dollars for this job, an’ left it in th’ warden’s hands.”

“What’s his name?” I inquired.

“Darby the Goph.”

Big Kennedy now unfolded his plan for making Darby the Goph useful in our affairs. Foxy Billy would allow himself to get behind in his labors over the City books. In a spasm of industry he would arrange with his superiors to work nights until he was again abreast of his duties. Foxy Billy, night after night, would thus be left alone in the Comptroller’s office. The safe that baffled us for those priceless documents would be unguarded. Nothing would be thought by janitors and night watchmen of the presence of Darby the Goph. He would be with Foxy Billy in the rôle of a friend, who meant no more than to kindly cheer his lonely labors.

Darby the Goph would lounge and kill time while Foxy Billy moiled.

“There’s the scheme to put Darby inside,” said Big Kennedy in conclusion. “Once they’re alone, he’ll tear th’ packin’ out o’ that safe. When Billy has copied the papers, th’ game’s as simple as suckin’ eggs. We’ll spring ‘em, an’ make th’ Chief look like a dress suit at a gasfitters’ ball.”

Big Kennedy’s programme was worked from beginning to end by Foxy Billy and Darby the Goph, and never jar nor jolt nor any least of friction. It ran out as smoothly as two and two make four. In the end, Big Kennedy held in his fingers every evidence required to uproot the Chief. The ear and the hand of Darby the Goph had in no sort lost their cunning.

“An’ now,” said Big Kennedy, when dismissing Darby the Goph, “you go back where you belong. I’ve wired the warden, an’ he’ll give you that bit of dough. I’ve sent for a copper to put you on th’ train. I don’t want to take chances on you stayin’ over a day. You might get to lushin’, an’ disgrace yourself with th’ warden.”

The police officer arrived, and Big Kennedy told him to see Darby the Goph aboard the train.

“Don’t make no mistake,” said Big Kennedy, by way of warning. “He belongs in Sing Sing, an’ must get back without fail to-night. Stay by th’ train till it pulls out.”

“How about th’ bristles?” said the officer, pointing to the two-weeks’ growth of beard that stubbled the chin of the visitor. “Shall I have him scraped?”

“No, they’ll fix his face up there,” said Big Kennedy. “The warden don’t care what he looks like, only so he gets his clamps on him ag’in.”

“Here’s the documents,” said Big Kennedy, when Darby the Goph and his escort had departed. “The question now is, how to give th’ Chief th’ gaff, an’ gaff him deep an’ good. He’s th’ party who was goin’ to leave me on both sides of th’ street.” This last with an exultant sneer.

It was on my thoughts that the hand to hurl the thunderbolt we had been forging was that of the reputable old gentleman. The blow would fall more smitingly if dealt by him; his was a name superior for this duty to either Big Kennedy’s or my own. With this argument, Big Kennedy declared himself in full accord.

“It’ll look more like th’ real thing,” said he, “to have th’ kick come from th’ outside. Besides, if I went to th’ fore it might get in my way hereafter.”

The reputable old gentleman moved with becoming conservatism, not to say dignity. He took the documents furnished by the ingenuity of Darby the Goph, and the oil-burning industry of Foxy Billy, and pored over them for a day. Then he sent for Big Kennedy. “The evidence you furnish me,” said he, “seems absolutely conclusive. It betrays a corruption not paralleled in modern times, with the head of Tammany as the hub of the villainy. The town has been plundered of millions,” concluded the reputable old gentleman, with a fine oratorical flourish, “and it is my duty to lay bare this crime in all its enormity, as one of the people’s Representatives.”

“An’ a taxpayer,” added Big Kennedy.

“Sir, my duty as a Representative,” returned the reputable old gentleman severely, “has precedence over my privileges as a taxpayer.” Then, as though the question offered difficulties: “The first step should be the publication of these documents in a paper of repute.”

The reputable old gentleman had grounds for hesitation. Our enemy, the Chief, was not without his allies among the dailies of that hour. The Chief was popular in certain glutton circles. He still held to those characteristics of a ready, laughing, generous recklessness that marked him in a younger day when, as head of a fire company, with trousers tucked in boots, red shirt, fire helmet, and white coat thrown over arm, he led the ropes and cheered his men. But what were excellent as traits in a fireman, became fatal under conditions where secrecy and a policy of no noise were required for his safety. He was headlong, careless; and, indifferent to discovery since he believed himself secure, the trail of his wrongdoing was as widely obvious, not to say as unclean, as was Broadway.

“Yes,” said the reputable old gentleman, “the great thing is to pitch upon a proper paper.”

“There’s the Dally Tory?” suggested Big Kennedy. “It’s a very honest sheet,” said the reputable old gentleman approvingly.

“Also,” said Big Kennedy, “the Chief has just cut it out of th’ City advertisin’, d’ye see, an’ it’s as warm as a wolf.”

For these double reasons of probity and wrath, the Daily Tory was agreed to. The reputable old gentleman would put himself in touch with the Daily Tory without delay.

“Who is this Chief of Tammany?” asked the reputable old gentleman, towards the close of the conference. “Personally, I know but little about him.”

“He’d be all right,” said Big Kennedy, “but he was spoiled in the bringin’ up. He was raised with th’ fire companies, an’ he made th’ mistake of luggin’ his speakin’ trumpet into politics.”

“But is he a deep, forceful man?”

“No,” returned Big Kennedy, with a contemptuous toss of the hand. “If he was, you wouldn’t have been elected to Congress. He makes a brash appearance, but there’s nothin’ behind. You open his front door an’ you’re in his back yard.”

The reputable old gentleman was bowing us out of his library, when Big Kennedy gave him a parting word.

“Now remember: my name aint to show at all.”