“Brave as a lion, he was.” “He was.” “There’s no question of his nerve to-day.” “None at all.” “He’s a good leader.” “He is.” “How did Powers ever come to get his grip upon the district?” I inquired of an old office-holder who was silently watching the buzzing throng in the rooms before him. “He was always popular with the boys,” he answered. “Long before the fortieth was ever divided he was popular with the boys of one section of it. Creamer was leader at that time.” “Yes, but how did he get up?” “How does anybody get up?” he returned. “He worked up. When he was assistant mechanic in the Fire Department, getting a hundred and twenty a month, he gave half of it away. Anybody could get money off him; that was the trouble. I’ve known him as a lad to give seventy-seven dollars away in one month.” “Who was he, that he should distribute money so freely?” “Captain of two hundred, of course. He wasn’t called upon to spend his own money, though.” “And that started him?” “He was always a smart fellow,” returned the speaker. “Creamer liked him. Creamer was a fighter himself. Mike was as brave as a lion. When they divided the district he got John Kelly to give Powers the other half. He did it, of course, because he could trust Powers to stand with him. But he did it, just the same.” “Kelly was head of Tammany Hall then?” “He was.” While we were talking a cart-driver or street-cleaner made his way through the broad street-door towards the private office where so many others were, taking off his hat as he did so and waiting respectfully to one side. Dozens of young politicians were trifling about. The deputy commissioner of highways, the assistant deputy tax commissioner, the assistant deputy of the department of sewers, and others were lounging comfortably in the chief’s room. Three or four black-suited, priestly-looking assistants from the office of the chief of police were conferring in that wise, subtle and whispering way which characterizes all the conversation of those numerous aspirants for higher political preferment. Some one stalked over to the waiting newcomer and said: “Well?” “Is Mr. Powers here this evening?” At the sound of his name the leader, who was lounging in his Russia-leather chair within, raised his head, and seeing the figure in the reception area, exclaimed: “Put on your hat, old man! No one is expected to put off his hat here. Come right in!” He paused, and as the street-sweeper approached he turned lightly to his satellites. “Get the hell out of here, now, and let this man have a chance,” he said quickly, the desire to be genial with all being apparent. The deputies came out of the room smiling and the old man was ushered in.