"Yes, Doc," went on Mr. Cargan, evidently on a favorite topic, "it's the reformers that have caused all the trouble, from that snake down. Things are running smooth, folks all prosperous and satisfied--then they come along in their gum shoes and white neckties. And they knock away at the existing order until the public begins to believe 'em and gives 'em a chance to run things. What's the result? The world's in a worse tangle than ever before." "You feel deeply on the subject, Mr. Cargan," remarked Magee. "I ought to," the mayor replied. "I ain't no writer, but if I was, I'd turn out a book that would drive this whiskered hermit's argument to the wall. Woman--bah! The only way women make trouble is by falling for the reform gag." Mr. Peters here interrupted with the dessert, and through that course Mr. Cargan elaborated on his theory. He pointed out how, in many states, reform had interrupted the smooth flow of life, set everything awhirl, and cruelly sent "the boys" who had always been faithful out into the cold world seeking the stranger, work. While he talked, the eyes of Lou Max looked out at him from behind the incongruous gold-rimmed glasses, with the devotion of the dog to its master clearly written in them. Mr. Magee had read many articles about this picturesque Cargan who had fought his way with his fists to the position of practical dictator in the city of Reuton. The story was seldom told without a mention of his man Max--Lou Max who kept the south end of Reuton in line for the mayor, and in that low neighborhood of dives and squalor made Cargan's a name to conjure with. Watching him now, Mr. Magee marveled at this cheap creature's evident capacity for loyalty. "It was the reformers got Napoleon," the mayor finished. "Yes, they sent Napoleon to an island at the end. And him without an equal since the world began." "Is your--begging your pardon--is your history just straight?" demurred Professor Bolton timidly. "Is it?" frowned Cargan. "You can bet it is. I know Napoleon from the cradle to the grave. I ain't an educated man, Doc--I can hire all the educated men I want for eighteen dollars a week--but I'm up on Bonaparte." "It seems to me," Miss Norton put in, "I have heard--did I read it in a paper?--that a picture of Napoleon hangs above your desk. They say that you see in your own career, a similarity to his. May I ask--is it true?" "No, miss," replied Cargan. "That's a joking story some newspaper guy wrote up. It ain't got no more truth in it than most newspaper yarn. No, I ain't no Napoleon. There's lots of differences between us--one in particular." He raised his voice, and glared at the company around the table. "One in particular. The reformers got Napoleon at the end." "But the end is not yet," suggested Mr. Magee, smiling. Mr. Cargan gave him a sudden and interested look. "I ain't worrying," he replied. "And don't you, young fellow."