Page:The cry for justice - an anthology of the literature of social protest. - (IA cryforjusticea00sinc).pdf/554

 sovereign, you had some power of your own. And you described it today as the backing of your own ward, which, you said, you had in your pocket. When you became boss, you got the backing, the personal support, of other wards, didn't you?"

"Seven of 'em," he counted. "Made th' leaders myself."

"And you developed a big personal following in other wards, too?"

"Sure," he said; "in every one of them. I was a popular leader; not only a boss, but a friend with friends, lots of 'em. The people liked me."

"That's the point," I said. "The people liked you."

He nodded warmly.

"The common people," I went on, and he was about to nod, but he didn't. And his fingers became still. "Your own people—the great helpless mass of the friendless mob—liked you." His eyes were fixed on mine. "They followed you; they trusted you."

I paused a moment, then I asked: "Didn't they, Boss?"

"Yes," he said with his lips alone.

"They didn't set a watch on you, did they?" I continued. "They voted as you bade them vote, elected the fellows you put on the tickets of their party for them. And, after they elected them, they left it to them, and to you, to be true to them; to stick to them; to be loyal."

His eyes fell to his fingers, and his fingers began again to pick.

"And when your enemies got after you and accused you," I said, "the people stuck by you?"

No answer; only the fingers picked.