Morton was so much his old practical self that he bade me consider a candidate and a programme. “Let us nominate my old gentleman for mayor,” said he. “He's very old; but he's clean and he's strong, don't y' know. Really he would draw every vote to his name that should of right belong to us.” “That might be,” I returned; “but I may tell you, and stay within the truth, that if your father got no more votes than should of right be his, defeat would overtake him to the tune of thousands. Add the machine to the mugwumps, and this movement of labor still has us beaten by twenty thousand men. That being the case, why should I march Tammany--and my own fortune, too--into such a trap?” “What else can you do?” asked Morton. “I can tell you what was in my mind,” said I. “It was to go with this labor movement and control it.” “That labor fellow they've put up would make the worst of mayors. You and Tammany would forever be taunted with the errors of his administration. Besides, the creature's success would vulgarize the town; it would, really!” “He is an honest man,” said I. “Honest, yes; but what of that? Honesty is the commonest trait of ignorance. There should be something more than honesty, don't y' know, to make a mayor. There be games like draw poker and government where to be merely honest is not a complete equipment. Besides, think of the shock of such a term of hobnails in the City Hall. If you, with your machine, would come in, we could elect my old gentleman over him or any other merely honest candidate whom those vulgarians could put up; we could, really!” “Tell me how,” said I. “There would be millions of money,” lisped Morton, pausing to select a cigarette; “since Money would be swimming for dear life. All our fellows at the club are scared to death--really! One can do anything with money, don't y' know.” “One can't stop a runaway horse with money,” I retorted; “and this labor movement is a political runaway.” “With money we could build a wall across its course and let those idiots of politics run against it. My dear fellow, let us make a calculation. Really, how many votes should those labor animals overrun us, on the situation's merits?” “Say twenty-five thousand.” “This then should give so experienced a hand as yourself some shade of comfort. The Master of the Philadelphia Machine, don't y' know, is one of my railway partners. 'Old chap,' said he, when I told him of the doings of our New York vandals, 'I'll send over to you ten thousand men, any one of whom would loot a convent. These common beggars must be put down! The example might spread to Philadelphia.' So you see,” concluded Morton, “we would not be wanting in election material. What should ten thousand men mean?”