“If I could sell out, I'd quit,” said Gaffney. “Well,” responded Big Kennedy, “I always like to help a friend.” Grocer Fogel bought Gaffney's store, making a bargain. This iron-bound lesson in practical politics I dwell on in full. I drew from it some notion of the stern character of that science. Old Mike, from the pinnacles of his hard experience, looked down to justify it. “Gaffney would do th' same,” said Old Mike, “if his ar-rm was long enough. Politics is a game where losers lose all; it's like war, shure, only no one's kilt--at any rate, not so many.” As the days drew on, I grew in favor with Big Kennedy, and the blossom thereof took this color. “Why don't you start a club?” he asked one afternoon, as we sat in his sanctum. “You could bring two hundred young fellows together, couldn't you?” “Yes,” I replied. I spoke doubtfully; the suggestion was of the sharpest, and gave me no space to think. It was one, too, which asked questions of the kind that don't answer themselves. “But where would they meet?” I put this after a pause. “There's the big lodgeroom over my saloon,” and Big Kennedy tossed his stubby thumb towards the ceiling. “You could meet there. There's a dumb waiter from the bar to send up beer and smokes.” “How about the Tin Whistles?” I hinted. “Would they do to build on?” “Leave the Tin Whistles out. They're all right as shoulder-hitters, an' a swifter gang to help at the polls, or break up the opposition's meetin's, never walked the streets. But for a play of this kind, they're a little off color. Your Tin Whistles can join, man by man, but if they do they must sing low. They mustn't try to give the show; it's the back seat for them. What you're out for now is the respectable young workin'-man racket; that's the lay.” “But where's the money?” said I. “These people I have in mind haven't much money.”