After his conference with Hand, Gilgan, going about the city with the promise of ready cash on his lips, was able to arouse considerable enthusiasm for the Republican cause. In the wards and sections where the so-called “better element” prevailed it seemed probable, because of the heavy moral teaching of the newspapers, that the respectable vote would array itself almost solidly this time against Cowperwood. In the poorer wards it would not be so easy. True, it was possible, by a sufficient outlay of cash, to find certain hardy bucaneers who could be induced to knife their own brothers, but the result was not certain. Having heard through one person and another of the disgruntled mood of both Kerrigan and Tiernan, and recognizing himself, even if he was a Republican, to be a man much more of their own stripe than either McKenty or Dowling, Gilgan decided to visit that lusty pair and see what could be done by way of alienating them from the present center of power.
After due reflection he first sought out “Emerald Pat” Kerrigan, whom he knew personally but with whom he was by no means intimate politically, at his Emporium Bar in Dearborn Street. This particular saloon, a feature of political Chicago at this time, was a large affair containing among other marvelous saloon fixtures a circular bar of cherry wood twelve feet in diameter, which glowed as a small mountain with the customary plain and colored glasses, bottles, labels, and mirrors. The floor was a composition of small, shaded red-and-green marbles; the ceiling a daub of pinky, fleshy nudes floating among diaphanous clouds; the walls were alternate panels of cerise and brown set in rosewood. Mr. Kerrigan, when other duties were not pressing, was usually to be found standing chatting with several friends and surveying the wonders of his bar trade, which was very large. On the day of Mr. Gilgan’s call he was resplendent in a dark-brown suit with a fine red stripe in it, Cordovan leather shoes, a wine-colored tie ornamented with the emerald of so much renown, and a straw hat of flaring proportions and novel weave. About his waist, in lieu of a waistcoat, was fastened one of the eccentricities of the day, a manufactured silk sash. He formed an interesting contrast with Mr. Gilgan, who now came up very moist, pink, and warm, in a fine, light tweed of creamy, showy texture, straw hat, and yellow shoes.
“How are you, Kerrigan?” he observed, genially, there being no political enmity between them. “How’s the first, and how’s trade? I see you haven’t lost the emerald yet?”
“No. No danger of that. Oh, trade’s all right. And so’s the first. How’s Mr. Gilgan?” Kerrigan extended his hand cordially.
“I have a word to say to you. Have you any time to spare?”
For answer Mr. Kerrigan led the way into the back room. Already he had heard rumors of a strong Republican opposition at the coming election.
Mr. Gilgan sat down. “It’s about things this fall I’ve come to see you, of course,” he began, smilingly. “You and I are supposed to be on opposite sides of the fence, and we are as a rule, but I am wondering whether we need be this time or not?”
Mr. Kerrigan, shrewd though seemingly simple, fixed him with an amiable eye. “What’s your scheme?” he said. “I’m always open to a good idea.”
“Well, it’s just this,” began Mr. Gilgan, feeling his way. “You have a fine big ward here that you carry in your vest pocket, and so has Tiernan, as we all know; and we all know, too, that if it wasn’t for what you and him can do there wouldn’t always be a Democratic mayor elected. Now, I have an idea, from looking into the thing, that neither you nor Tiernan have got as much out of it so far as you might have.”
Mr. Kerrigan was too cautious to comment as to that, though Mr. Gilgan paused for a moment.
“Now, I have a plan, as I say, and you can take it or leave it, just as you want, and no hard feelings one way or the other. I think the Republicans are going to win this fall—McKenty or no McKenty—first, second, and third wards with us or not, as they choose. The doings of the big fellow”—he was referring to McKenty—“with the other fellow in North Clark Street”—Mr. Gilgan preferred to be a little enigmatic at times—“are very much in the wind just now. You see how the papers stand. I happen to know where there’s any quantity of money coming into the game from big financial quarters who have no use for this railroad man. It’s a solid La Salle and Dearborn Street lineup, so far as I can see. Why, I don’t know. But so it is. Maybe you know better than I do. Anyhow, that’s the way it stands now. Add to that the fact that there are eight naturally Republican wards as it is, and ten more where there is always a fighting chance, and you begin to see what I’m driving at. Count out these last ten, though, and bet only on the eight that are sure to stand. That leaves twenty-three wards that we Republicans always conceded to you people; but if we manage to carry thirteen of them along with the eight I’m talking about, we’ll have a majority in council, and”—flick! he snapped his fingers—“out you go—you, McKenty, Cowperwood, and all the rest. No more franchises, no more street-paving contracts, no more gas deals. Nothing—for two years, anyhow, and maybe longer. If we win we’ll take the jobs and the fat deals.” He paused and surveyed Kerrigan cheerfully but defiantly.
“Now, I’ve just been all over the city,” he continued, “in
