“Lock him up!” cried Big Kennedy. “If he'd slugged somebody, even if he'd croaked him, I'd have stuck to him till th' pen'tentiary doors pinched my fingers. But I've no use for a crook. Sing Sing's th' place for him! It's just such fine workers as him who disgrace th' name of Tammany Hall. They lift a leather, an' they make Tammany a cover for th' play.” “Are you goin' back on me?” wailed Sheeny Joe. “Put him inside!” said Big Kennedy to the officer in charge of the station. Then, to Sheeny Joe, with the flicker of a leer: “Why don't you send to the Tub of Blood?” “Shall I take bail for him, Mr. Kennedy, if any shows up?” asked the officer in charge. “No; no bail!” replied Big Kennedy. “If anyone offers, tell him I don't want it done.” It was three weeks later when Sheeny Joe was found guilty, and sentenced to prison for four years. The broad man, the police officer, and divers who at the time of his arrest were looking on, come forward as witnesses against Sheeny Joe, and twelve honest dullards who called themselves a jury, despite his protestations that he was “being jobbed,” instantly declared him guilty. Sheeny Joe, following his sentence, was dragged from the courtroom, crying and cursing the judge, the jury, the witnesses, but most of all Big Kennedy. Nor do I think Big Kennedy's agency in drawing down this fate upon Sheeny Joe was misunderstood by ones with whom it was meant to pass for warning. I argue this from what was overheard by me as we left the courtroom where Sheeny Joe was sentenced. The two in conversation were walking a pace in advance of me. “He got four spaces!” said one in an awed whisper. “He's dead lucky not to go for life!” exclaimed the other. “How much of the double-cross do you guess now Big Kennedy will stand? I've seen a bloke take a slab in th' morgue for less. It was Benny the Bite; he gets a knife between his slats.” “What's it all about, Jawn?” asked Old Mike, who later sat in private review of the case of Sheeny Joe. “Why are you puttin' a four-year smother on that laad?” “It's gettin' so,” explained Big Kennedy, “that these people of ours look on politics as a kind of Virginny reel. It's first dance on one side an' then cross to th' other. There's a bundle of money ag'inst us, big enough to trip a dog, an' discipline was givin' way. Our men could smell th' burnin' money an' it made 'em crazy. Somethin' had to come off to sober 'em, an' teach 'em discipline, an' make 'em sing 'Home, Sweet Home'!” “It's all right, then!” declared Old Mike decisively. “The main thing is to kape up th' organization! Better twinty like that Sheeny Joe should learn th' lockstep than weaken Tammany Hall. Besides, I'm not like th' law. I belave in sindin' folks to prison, not for what they do, but for what they are. An' this la-ad was a har-rd crackther.”