The Titan

so far as they related to the so-called rights of the mass), he was a fit individual to succeed politically. His saloon was the finest in all Wentworth Avenue. It fairly glittered with the newly introduced incandescent lamp reflected in a perfect world of beveled and faceted mirrors. His ward, or district, was full of low, rain-beaten cottages crowded together along half-made streets; but Patrick Gilgan was now a state senator, slated for Congress at the next Congressional election, and a possible successor of the Hon. John J. McKenty as dictator of the city, if only the Republican party should come into power. (Hyde Park, before it had been annexed to the city, had always been Republican, and since then, although the larger city was normally Democratic, Gilgan could not conveniently change.) Hearing from the political discussion which preceded the election that Gilgan was by far the most powerful politician on the South Side, Hand sent for him. Personally, Hand had far less sympathy with the polite moralistic efforts of men like Haguenin, Hyssop, and others, who were content to preach morality and strive to win by the efforts of the unco good, than he had with the cold political logic of a man like Cowperwood himself. If Cowperwood could work through McKenty to such a powerful end, he, Hand, could find someone else who could be made as powerful as McKenty.

“Mr. Gilgan,” said Hand, when the Irishman came in, medium tall, beefy, with shrewd, twinkling gray eyes and hairy hands, “you don’t know me⁠—”

“I know of you well enough,” smiled the Irishman, with a soft brogue. “You don’t need an introduction to talk to me.”

“Very good,” replied Hand, extending his hand. “I know of you, too. Then we can talk. It’s the political situation here in Chicago I’d like to discuss with you. I’m not a politician myself, but I take some interest in what’s going on. I want to know what you think will be the probable outcome of the present situation here in the city.”

Gilgan, having no reason for laying his private political convictions bare to anyone whose motive he did not know, merely replied: “Oh, I think the Republicans may have a pretty good show. They have all but one or two of the papers with them, I see. I don’t know much outside of what I read and hear people talk.”

Mr. Hand knew that Gilgan was sparring, and was glad to find his man canny and calculating.

“I haven’t asked you to come here just to be talking over politics in general, as you may imagine, Mr. Gilgan. I want to put a particular problem before you. Do you happen to know either Mr. McKenty or Mr. Cowperwood?”

“I never met either of them to talk to,” replied Gilgan. “I know Mr. McKenty by sight, and I’ve seen Mr. Cowperwood once.” He said no more.

“Well,” said Mr. Hand, “suppose a group of influential men here in Chicago were to get together and guarantee sufficient funds for a citywide campaign; now, if you had the complete support of the newspapers and the Republican organization in the bargain, could you organize the opposition here so that the Democratic party could be beaten this fall? I’m not talking about the mayor merely and the principal city officers, but the council, too⁠—the aldermen. I want to fix things so that the McKenty-Cowperwood crowd couldn’t get an alderman or a city official to sell out, once they are elected. I want the Democratic party beaten so thoroughly that there won’t be any question in anybody’s mind as to the fact that it has been done. There will be plenty of money forthcoming if you can prove to me, or, rather, to the group of men I am thinking of, that the thing can be done.”

Mr. Gilgan blinked his eyes solemnly. He rubbed his knees, put his thumbs in the armholes of his vest, took out a cigar, lit it, and gazed poetically at the ceiling. He was thinking very, very hard. Mr. Cowperwood and Mr. McKenty, as he knew, were very powerful men. He had always managed to down the McKenty opposition in his ward, and several others adjacent to it, and in the Eighteenth Senatorial District, which he represented. But to be called upon to defeat him in Chicago, that was different. Still, the thought of a large amount of cash to be distributed through him, and the chance of wresting the city leadership from McKenty by the aid of the so-called moral forces of the city, was very inspiring. Mr. Gilgan was a good politician. He loved to scheme and plot and make deals⁠—as much for the fun of it as anything else. Just now he drew a solemn face, which, however, concealed a very light heart.

“I have heard,” went on Hand, “that you have built up a strong organization in your ward and district.”

“I’ve managed to hold me own,” suggested Gilgan, archly. “But this winning all over Chicago,” he went on, after a moment, “now, that’s a pretty large order. There are thirty-one wards in Chicago this election, and all but eight of them are nominally Democratic. I know most of the men that are in them now, and some of them are pretty shrewd men, too. This man Dowling in council is nobody’s fool, let me tell you that. Then there’s Duvanicki and Ungerich and Tiernan and Kerrigan⁠—all good men.” He mentioned four of the most powerful and crooked aldermen in the city. “You see, Mr. Hand, the way things are now the Democrats have the offices, and the small jobs to give out. That gives them plenty of political workers to begin with. Then they have the privilege of collecting money from those in office to help elect themselves. That’s another great privilege.” He smiled. “Then this man Cowperwood employs all of ten thousand men at present, and any ward boss that’s favorable to him can send a man out of work to him and he’ll