The last time it had been the unions
that made the trouble; and three of the last supervisors had been
labor leaders--"the worst skates of all," as Callahan phrased it.
Samuel listened, while one by one the last of his illusions were torn
to shreds. There had been a general scramble to get favors from the
new government of the town; and the scramblers seemed to include every
pious and respectable member of St. Matthew's whose name Samuel had
ever heard. There was old Mr. Curtis, another of the vestrymen, who
passed the plate every Sunday morning, and looked like a study of the
Olympian Jove. He wanted to pile boxes on the sidewalks in front of
his warehouse, and he had come to Slattery and paid him two hundred
dollars.
"And Mr. Wygant!" exclaimed Samuel, as a sudden thought came to him.
"Is it true that he is back of the organization?"
"Good God!" laughed Callahan. "Did you hear him say that?"
"Some one else told me," was the reply.
"Well," said the other, "the truth is that Wygant got cold feet before
the election, and he came to Slattery and fixed it. I know that, for
Slattery told me. We had him bluffed clean--I don't think we'd ever
have got in at all if it hadn't been for his money."
"I see!" whispered the boy.
"Oh, he's a smooth guy!" laughed the saloon keeper. "Look at that new
franchise got for his trolley road--ninety-nine years, and anything he
wants in the meantime! And then to hear him making reform speeches!
That's what makes me mad about them fellows up on the hill.
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