“My father's running for Congress. But he's old-fashioned; he doesn't understand these things.” The tones were confident and sophisticated. I began to see how the eyeglass, the cane, and the lisp belied our caller. Under his affectations, he was as keen and cool a hand as Big Kennedy himself. “No,” he repeated, taking meanwhile a thick envelope from his frock-coat, “he doesn't understand. The idea of money shocks him, don't y' know.” “That's it!” returned Big Kennedy, sympathetically. “He's old-fashioned; he thinks this thing is like runnin' to be superintendent of a Sunday school. He aint down to date.” “Here,” observed our visitor, tapping the table with the envelope, and smiling to find himself and Big Kennedy a unit as to the lamentable innocence of his father, “here are twenty one-thousand-dollar bills. I didn't draw a check for reasons you appreciate. I shall trust you to make the best use of this money. Also, I shall work with you through the campaign.” With that, the young gentleman went his way, humming a tune; and all as though leaving twenty thousand dollars in the hands of some chance-sown politician was the common employment of his evenings. When he was gone, Big Kennedy opened the envelope. There they were; twenty one-thousand-dollar bills. Big Kennedy pointed to them as they lay on the table. “There's the reformer for you!” he said. “He'll go talkin' about Tammany Hall; but once he himself goes out for an office, he's ready to buy a vote or burn a church! But say! that young Morton's all right!” Here Big Kennedy's manner betrayed the most profound admiration. “He's as flossy a proposition as ever came down th' pike.” Then his glance recurred doubtfully to the treasure. “I wish he'd brought it 'round by daylight. I'll have to set up with this bundle till th' bank opens. Some fly guy might cop a sneak on it else. There's a dozen of my best customers, any of whom would croak a man for one of them bills.” The campaign went forward rough and tumble. Big Kennedy spent money like water, the Red Jackets never slept, while the Tin Whistles met the plug-uglies of the enemy on twenty hard-fought fields. The only move unusual, however, was one made by that energetic exquisite, young Morton. Young Morton, in the thick from the first, went shoulder to shoulder with Big Kennedy and myself. One day he asked us over to his personal headquarters. “You know,” said he, with his exasperating lisp, and daintily adjusting his glasses, “how there's a lot of negroes to live over this way--quite a settlement of them.” “Yes,” returned Big Kennedy, “there's about three hundred votes among 'em. I've never tried to cut in on 'em, because there's no gettin' a nigger to vote th' Tammany ticket.” “Three hundred votes, did you say?” lisped the youthful manager. “I shall get six hundred.” Then, to a black who was hovering about: “Call in those new recruits.” Six young blacks, each with a pleasant grin, marched into the room.