cajole. Soft or kind words won't go with
that type of man. Threaten, and when you have managed to extract a
promise be on hand with ropes to see that he keeps his word. I don't
like to advise arbitrary methods, but what else is to be done? The
enemy is armed and ready for action right now. They're just waiting for
a peaceful moment. Don't let them find it. Be ready. Fight. I'm
your mayor, and ready to do all I can, but I stand alone with a mere
pitiful veto right. You help me and I'll help you. You fight for me
and I'll fight for you."

Witness hereafter the discomfiting situation of Mr. Simon Pinski at 9
P.M. on the second evening following the introduction of the ordinance,
in the ward house of the Fourteenth Ward Democratic Club. Rotund,
flaccid, red-faced, his costume a long black frock-coat and silk hat,
Mr. Pinski was being heckled by his neighbors and business associates.
He had been called here by threats to answer for his prospective high
crimes and misdemeanors. By now it was pretty well understood that
nearly all the present aldermen were criminal and venal, and in
consequence party enmities were practically wiped out. There were no
longer for the time being Democrats and Republicans, but only pro or
anti Cowperwoods--principally anti. Mr. Pinski, unfortunately, had
been singled out by the Transcript, the Inquirer, and the Chronicle as
one of those open to advance questioning by his constituents. Of mixed
Jewish and American extraction, he had been born and raised in the
Fourteenth and spoke with a decidedly American accent. He was neither
small nor large--sandy-haired, shifty-eyed, cunning, and on most
occasions amiable. Just now he was decidedly nervous, wrathy, and
perplexed, for he had been brought here against his will. His slightly
oleaginous eye--not unlike that of a small pig--had been fixed
definitely and finally on the munificent sum of thirty thousand
dollars, no less, and this local agitation threatened to deprive him of
his almost unalienable right to the same. His ordeal took place in a
large, low-ceiled room illuminated by five very plain, thin, two-armed
gas-jets suspended from the ceiling and adorned by posters of
prizefights, raffles, games, and the "Simon Pinski Pleasure
Association" plastered here and there freely against dirty,
long-unwhitewashed walls. He stood on the low raised platform at the
back of the room, surrounded by a score or more of his ward henchmen,
all m