Goldberg's existed by grace of the modern god of money. Goldberg was a tool of the autocratic Shaughnessy, who contrived to head and manage a corrupt city government. Goldberg captained his ward, which was one of Shaughnessy's gilt-edged assets. The ward had become Shaughnessy's by right of Goldberg's conquest. It was a ward of thugs and human jugs and brutal, elementary mugs; all American sovereigns, equalized with decency under the deathless document of American independence. Born sovereigns, or having taken out papers, the adult males in this ward had lined up one day, now far in the past. One hand of each proudly clutched a ballot, the badge of his sovereignty. The other hand was greedily extended for the accompanying cash. Into the grimy palms had dropped more cash from Shaughnessy via Goldberg, than could be afforded by any of their rivals. So the ballots poured into the boxes for Goldberg, whose bull-faced lieutenants flanked the line to see that the bargain was carried out. Goldberg was the choice of his people for alderman. He was theirs, and through his rude genius, under Shaughnessy, it transpired that they were his forever. He did not sit with the council now. He had long since relinquished even the higher posts of confidence with which Shaughnessy had honored him after his aldermanic career. Truth to tell, Goldberg had become sufficiently notorious to convince Shaughnessy that it would be politic to remove him from under the direct glare of the public eye. He could perform better service from the wings. So Goldberg had apparently retired from all connection with the politics of the city and even his own ward, though Shaughnessy and the retired gentleman could have told better. They now picked their puppets to run, invariably routing the forces of law and order on election day with the tremendous majorities for license and disorder rolled up in their several wards. There was subsequent increment, which someone got, gathered in shady subways of a peculiar municipal government; presenting the situation which makes the indifferent voter a byword and reproach in many cities of this broad and extremely hospitable land. On these triumphal election nights, too, joy overflowed at Goldberg's place,--albeit he was "no longer interested in politics,"--and fell like strong dew upon the unjust. There were free draughts of the cheap in beverages flowing fast into the faces of the unlaved, unshaved crew. The godless exulted and Goldberg continued to hold them for Shaughnessy in the hollow of his hand.