Meanwhile, at the head of the great study table in his Pompton Avenue “Mausoleum” sat Caleb Conover, Railroader. And about him, on either side of the board, like feudal retainers of old, were grouped the pick of his lieutenants and henchmen. A rare coterie they were, these Knights of Graft. Separated by ten thousand varying interests, social strata and aspirations, they were as one on the main issue—their blind adherence to the Boss and to the lightest of his orders. This impelling force was difficult of defining. Love, fear, trust, desire for spoils? Perhaps a little of all four; perhaps much; perhaps an indefinable something apart from these. For the power that draws and holds men to a political leader who possesses neither eloquence, charm nor the qualities of popularity has never been—can never be—clearly defined. Not one great Boss in ten can boast these qualities. Yet, whatever the reason of Caleb Conover’s dominance, none could for a moment doubt its presence. So ever-present was it that it had long since choked down all opposition from within his own ranks. Once, years before—as the story is still related—when he had first claimed, fought for and won his party preëminence, certain district leaders, eight in all, had plotted his downfall, and had privately selected one of their number to fill his shoes. News of the closed-door meeting which was to ratify this deposition was brought to Caleb by faithful Shevlin. The Railroader, without a word, had started for the back room of the saloon where the conference was in progress. Stalking in on the conspirators, he had gained the centre of their circle before they were well aware of his presence. Hat on head, cigar in mouth, he had swept the ring of faces with his light, steely eyes, noting each man there in one instant-brief glance as he did so. Then, twisting the cigar into one corner of his mouth, he had brought down his fist on the table and demanded: “How many of you people are with ME?” Like a pack of eager schoolboys the entire eight were upon their feet, clamoring their fealty. Then, without another word or look, the Master had stamped out of the room; leaving the erstwhile malcontents, as one of them afterward expressed it: “Standin’ there like a bunch of boiled sheepsheads without a thought but to shake hands with ourselves for havin’ such a grand Boss as Caleb Conover.”