"But really, you ought to be careful," urged Jimmy, "for your own sake, and your family's.'

"And you're a queer alderman," continued Callahan, as though he had not heard. "Y' don't know my politics, and y' don't even ask about 'em-and you just done me the best favor I ever got." He looked up. "Do you really think all those army officers keep out o' politics when they want a transfer? Do you think any one, outside o' Sing Sing, keeps out o' politics? And don'tcha think I got as good a right as any one to do what I like? I'm a city employee, and a laborer, but ain't I still an American?" Jimmy was thinking. "I know some of my own friends who keep out of politics," he said. "Perhaps they ought to be getting in, before we talk about taking other people out."

Callahan looked as though he had not understood. Then he put out his hand as Jimmy made to go. "Well, thanks, alderman," he said. "I'll think over that dope about politics. But a friend's a friend, and I say you done me a favor I'll never forget.'

"Oh, you did it yourself!" laughed Jimmy. "You earned it-that was bully!" And he laughed again as he thought of the smart young man's expedition of the morning.

As the campaign drew to a close Jimmy found fewer and fewer opportunities of seeing Miss Sally Skeffington. He did not see Callahan at all, and the incident of the newspaper passed from his mind almost entirely. At the district club, on the first floor of the old brownstone house in Twenty-third Street there was enough excitement to efface memory itself. The city was in the grip of that red-hot mayoralty campaign of 1913, and nowhere was it hotter than in the seventy-fifth aldermanic district. The struggle over the head of the ticket and the intermediate offices was bitter enough, for the fighting has always been good in this old midtown bailiwick, all along the line. But down at the tail of the ticket-where meet the candidates for alderman-there was a shindy on to stir even the oldtimers. Van Tassel's opponent was Mark Ryan, a rich saloonkeeper, who had been routed out by the leaders to "do up that young highbrow from Park

Avenue, and do him up good!" And Ryan was busy! Ryan was out to win, and every day the reports that came back to the district club in Twenty-third Street told of the waxing strength of Ryan. A week before election, at midnight, Van Tassel's leader, Donovan, called him into the back room of the district club-the stuffy little back room that was the innermost inner shrine.

"Siddown," he said, quietly, as he pulled out a big cigar. Donovan was stocky, keen, and resourceful-and chary of words. He blew out a cloud of smoke. "You're up against a tough fight," he said, as he looked kindly at the young alderman. "Toughest fight since I been leader. Ryan's strong, an' gettin' stronger. A month ago you'd 'a' won by a thousand. Now it's anybody's fight. But we're goin' to win!" Donovan brought his fist down on the desk with a bang, and waited a moment. "I just wanted to get that into your head," he went on. You're new at this game, an' there's a half a dozen croakers 'round here that ain't any too friendly-Kessler an' his crowd-don't take any stock in their dope. Jus' keep on goin' the way you're doin', makin' friends-an' keep a-goin'-every minute! Y' might win by one vote, an' it's that one vote you're after, all the time-remember that! Go ahead now-you're doin' fine-an' I can see y' got the guts. Tell Baker to come in."

66

"Certainly." Jimmy went out without further reply. He had come to know Donovan as an astute leader, a man of his word, and a fighter. He had a feeling that not yet had he come to know him as an intimate. But he trusted him. With Baker it was different-Big Bill Baker, his first friend in the district, the man who had first proposed him for alderman-as rugged and faithful as a Newfoundland dog! The big man's gray eyes under the grizzled hair looked his affection as Jimmy delivered the message.

"Siddown," said Donovan, as Big Bill shut the door of the holy of holies carefully behind him. Donovan waited a moment, examined his cigar, then looked up. "Bill, we got Van Tassel elected, 'cept for one thing," he said. "That's Kessler's district."

"Yeah," said Big Bill, an ugly look spreading over his face.

Donovan waved his hand. "Oh, I expected it," he said, "ever since we turned Kessler down in August to put in Van Tassel for the rest o' the term. Kessler wanted it bad. Well, that's done. Well, that's done. We know Kessler wouldn't do for alderman, an' we done right. Van Tassel's made good-an' he'll do better yet. But he's new in the organization, an' he ain't known, an' Ryan-I don't think Ryan would 'a' taken the nomination against any one else—not this year! But he sees a chance to do up this young Van Tassel. An' Ryan's strong."

Donovan paused again. "Well, that's past." He flicked the ashes from his cigar. "Now there's Kessler." He went on, his eyes half closed, as though thinking aloud: "Captain o' the twentieth election district for six years. Fairly good captain. Now he's sore. Layin' down. No good to talk to him. Just dead sore. An' he's played foxy. Can't pin it on him. An' it's too late to break in a new captain there. We'll do that after election-when Kessler's kicked out. But now, with Ryan pushin' us hard everywhere, we gotta carry Kessler's district-it's gettin' too close for comfort. We don't often carry that district, but this year we gotta do it, to win. An' I heard sump'n last night, Bill. There's an undercurrent settin' in for Van Tassel right in Kessler's own district. Just a little. But I don't know where it comes from-Van Tassel ain't acquainted at all, down there. We gotta find out, an' nurse it along, if we can. We gotta do sump'n there, Bill. I tell yer I'm worried. Don't pass that on. Can y' take a look aroun' there? Keep away from Kenna-you know-the captain agin us -he's reg'lar. An' go quiet. We gotta be careful!"

"A' right, chief." Big Bill went out. Donovan stayed, and thought, alone. An hour later he went out himself. "I don't get it," he was muttering. It was two o'clock in the morning.

For two days Big Bill was not seen at the club, nor in his own election district, nor even at the office in the Municipal Building down-town, where he served the city's government as a messenger-except at rare and necessary intervals.

Meanwhile Jimmy "kept on goin'." By day and by night he canvassed the

district, pulling door-bells here and pushing buttons there, mounting endless flights of stairs, meeting endless assortments of families, shaking hands with the fathers, passing the time of day with the mothers, and-always-ready for a romp with the kids, and their cats and dogs, if they gave him half a chance! He usually felt friendly but foolish when he met the parents; it was hard to know what to say, on these tours of self-exhibition. For he could not talk politics. "Oh, no," Big Bill had said, "let the big fellers do that -y' might get into an argyment, an' make bad friends." But he "fell for" the kids with such genuine enjoyment that the parents usually laughed as he leftand he had to laugh himself when he thought it over afterward. It was a queer way to run for alderman!

Of course he made speeches every night, from the tail of a tired-looking truck, drawn by a tired-looking horse, and backed up at corners where the coincidence of a saloon added to the complacency of the audience. On these expeditions a coterie of the faithful would escort the candidate to the corner, and, following a sputtering of red fire, and the plaint of a fife and ruffle of a drum concealed within the truck, would applaud vigorously from the sidewalk when Jimmy was introduced as "Our next alderman!" as he mounted the tail-board. When he ventured a gesture in the course of his harangue, the faithful would burst into further applause. As a rule the citizenry pulled on their pipes and stood pat, on these occasions.

Then there was campaign "literature" to be prepared, captains to be seen, errands to be run, favors to be doneJimmy had little time for rest or sleep. He began to learn what it is to campaign. in a close district. His cheeks grew thinner and his eyes heavier. He felt an increasing weariness as each day dawned. But he "kept on goin'." And election was only a few days away.

On Thursday evening, late, Big Bill reported to Donovan, in the back room. "I got part of it," he said. "Kessler's layin' down, coverin' his tracks. Kenna's on. So's Ryan. But this new thing has got 'em all guessin', an' I can't get the dope. It's the Crowbar Club-y' know that old beefsteak club that meets over

Curry's place? Started with a trackrepairin' gang on the old horse-cars, forty years ago." Donovan nodded. "It's a strong club, an' never was in politics before-just social. But the Crowbars is out for Van Tassel, strong, an' no one knows why. They're sayin' he done 'em a hell of a favor-you know-same old gag. An' all under cover. They even got sample ballots, an' they're practisin' splittin' for Van Tassel! Most of 'em never voted our way, an' they can't get out o' the habit o' votin' under the crab -all they know is the party emblem. Now they're practisin' goin' over at the tail o' the ticket an' puttin' a cross under the pigeon, for Van Tassel. It's queer. One big feller said he was practisin' every night, fer he couldn't keep his hand away from the crab when he took up a ballot, an' he was afraid he'd go the same old way when he got in the booth. But the Crowbars is out for Van Tassel. An' they're strong."

When the night before election came, and Jimmy had made his last speech and his last canvassing trip, he left the district club-house early. So did Donovan. So did Big Bill, and every one of the thirty captains. To-morrow would be a gruelling day, beginning early and ending late, and sleep was priceless. Donovan was the last to leave the club-house. He was satisfied with the campaign. Not a stone had been left unturned, not a trick left untaken. The captains and the workers had fought as a team, with a fine spirit and a growing enthusiasm as the campaign waxed hotter. To a man they had shunned the club-house, except for captains' meetings; they were in their districts, where the votes were, and where they belonged-let the amateurs sit at the seats of the mighty-those delicate annuals who call at headquarters and look wise, once a year! The captains were in the field! The house-to-house canvass had been the best that Donovan had ever witnessed and he had ways of knowing what went on. Only Kessler's district was in bad shape-but then, it might not be the "inside stuff" from the Crow

bars? That was a question. And the aldermanic result was a bigger question. Donovan admitted that to himself. His closest estimates showed a majority of less than a couple of hundred, this way or that. Ryan's strength had mounted steadily, and to the very end. So had Van Tassel's. Jimmy had "taken”people liked him! Neck and neck they had come up to the finish, and it was anybody's race. Never had Donovan seen the district so stirred-it was war to the knife and to the last vote! Well, tomorrow it would be hammered out in the white heat of the greatest race the old seventy-fifth had ever seen. To-morrow! Donovan went home to bed.

In the morning Jimmy breakfasted by candle-light in the big house on Park Avenue. As he hurried to the district club he met other men hurrying through the deserted streets. Some he knewcaptains and workers, bound for their polling-places. They passed seriously, anxiously. The very air seemed to breathe suspense and doubt.

In the little back room Jimmy found Donovan, three lawyers, and five men of stalwart proportions who did not look like lawyers. They smoked and yawned.

"Better be on your way, alderman," said Donovan, "car's waitin'. Thirty pollin'-places to visit, y' know. Begin up-town, with your own place, an' get your vote in-then work down. Keep on goin'-and call up here every two hours. An' don't forget the seegars for the workers! Rafferty's waitin' for yer outside. He'll go with yer."

"All right," said Jimmy, and he set off on the long day's round of visits to all the thirty polling-places. As he went out the door the telephone rang, and he heard Donovan saying: "Trouble in the twentieth? Kessler quit? All right-five men an' a lawyer'll be there in ten minutes." It was six o'clock. The polls were open.

At the polling-place of the twentieth election district, in Carmine Street, fifty men stood in line outside the barber-shop and ten inside. In the pocket of each man there rested a pink sample ballot, marked with a cross in the circle under the crab at the upper left-hand corner. For those were the days of party columns, when a single cross under the emblem