“That's different,” he returned. “No man ought to quit his friends. But you must be careful an' never have more'n two or three, d'ye see. Now these Mortons aint friends, they're confed'rates. It's as though we happened to be members of the same band of porch-climbers, that's all. Take it this way: How long do you guess it would take the Mortons to sell us out if it matched their little game? How long do you think we'd last? Well, we'd last about as long as a drink of whisky.” Big Kennedy met the Chief, and came back shaking his head in decisive negative. “There's nothin' in it,” he said; “he's all for playin' th' hog. It's that railway company's deal. Your vote as Alderman, mind you, wins or loses it! What do you think now he offers to do? I know what he gets. He gets stock, say two hundred thousand dollars, an' one hundred thousand dollars in cold cash. An' yet he talks of only splittin' out fifteen thousand for you an' me! Enough said; we fight him!” Jimmy the Blacksmith, when, in response to Big Kennedy's hint, he “followed Gaffney,” pitched his tent in the ward next north of our own. He made himself useful to the leader of that region, and called together a somber bevy which was known as the Alley Gang. With that care for himself which had ever marked his conduct, Jimmy the Blacksmith, and his Alley Gang, while they went to and fro as shoulder-hitters of the machine, were zealous to avoid the Tin Whistles, and never put themselves within their reach. On the one or two occasions when the Tin Whistles, lusting for collision, went hunting them, the astute Alleyites were no more to be discovered than a needle in the hay. “You couldn't find 'em with a search warrant!” reported my disgusted lieutenant. “I never saw such people! They're a disgrace to th' East Side.” However, they were to be found with the last of it, and it would have been a happier fortune for me had the event fallen the other way. It was the day of the balloting, and Big Kennedy and I had taken measures to render the result secure. Not only would we hold our ward, but the district and the reputable old gentleman were safe. Throughout the morning the word that came to us from time to time was ever a white one. It was not until the afternoon that information arrived of sudden clouds to fill the sky. The news came in the guise of a note from young Morton: “Jimmy the Blacksmith and his heelers are driving our people from the polls.” “You know what to do!” said Big Kennedy, tossing me the scrap of paper. With the Tin Whistles at my heels, I made my way to the scene of trouble. It was full time; for a riot was on, and our men were winning the worst of the fray. Clubs were going and stones were being thrown.