THE MAYOR AND THE POLICEMAN.
When the strong man turns, with a haughty lip,
On poverty, stern and grim,
When he seizes the fiend with a ruthless grip,
Ye need not fear for him.
But when poverty comes to a little child,
Freezing its bloom away--
When its cheeks are thin and its eyes are wild,
Give pity its gentle sway.
It was a bitter cold night--a myriad of stars hung in the sky, clear
and glittering, as if burnished by the frost. The moon sent down a
pale, freezing brilliancy that whitened all the ground, as if a
sprinkling of snow had fallen, but there was not a flake on the earth
or in the air. Little wind was abroad, but that little pierced through
mufflers and overcoats, like a swarm of invisible needles, sharp and
stinging. It was rather late in the evening, and in such weather few
persons were tempted abroad. Those who had comfortable hearths
remained at home, and even the street beggars crept within their
alleys and cellars; many of them driven to seek shelter in their
rags, without hope of fire or food.
But there was one man in New York city, who could neither seek rest
nor shelter till a given time, however inclement the weather might
be. With a thick pilot cloth overcoat buttoned to the chin, and his
glittering police star catching the moonbeams as they fell upon his
breast, he strode to and fro on his beat, occasionally pausing, with
his eyes lifted towards the stars, to ponder over some thought in
his mind, but speedily urged to motion again by the sharp tingling
of his feet and hands.
A feeling and thoughtful man was this policeman; he possessed much
originality of mind, which had received no small share of cultivation.
He had been connected with a mercantile house till symptoms of a
pulmonary disease drove him from his desk; then, by the kind aid of
a politician, who had not entirely lost all human feelings in the
council chamber, he was enrolled in the city police. To a mind less
nobly constructed, this minor position might have been a cause of
depression and annoyance, but John Chester, though not yet thirty-two,
had learned to think for himself. He felt that no occupation could
degrade an honorable man, and that gentlemanly habits, integrity and
intelligence were certain to shine out with greater lustre when found
in the humbler spheres of life.
Chester possessed both education and refinement, but having no better
means of support, accepted that which Providence presented, not with
grumbling condescension, but with that grateful alacrity which was
a sure proof that his duties would be faithfully performed; and that,
though capable of higher things, he was not one to neglect the most
humble, when they became duties.
To a man like Chester, the solitude of his night watches was at times
a luxury. When the great city lay slumbering around him, his mind
found subjects of deep thought in itself and in surrounding things.
Even on the night when we present him to the reader, the cold air,
while it chilled his body, seemed only to invigorate his mind. Instead
of brooding gloomily over his own position, certainly very inferior
to what it had been, he had many a compassionate thought for those
poorer than himself, without one envious feeling for the thousands
and thousands who would have deemed his small income of ten dollars
a week absolute poverty.
The ward in which he was stationed exhibited in a striking degree
the two great extremes of social life. Blocks of palatial buildings
loomed imposingly along the broad streets. Each dwelling, with its
spacious rooms and luxurious accommodations, was occupied by a single
family, sometimes of not more than two or three persons. Here plate
glass, silver mounted doors, and rich traceries in bronze and iron,
gave brilliant evidence of wealth; while many small gardens thrown
together, rich with shrubbery and vines in their season of verdure,
threw a fresh glow of nature around the rich man's dwelling. Resources
of enjoyment were around him on every hand. Each passing cloud seemed
to turn its silver lining upon these dwellings, as it rolled across
the heavens.
You had but to turn a corner, and lo! the very earth seemed vital
and teeming with human beings. Poor men and the children of poor men,
disputed possession of every brick upon the sidewalks. Every hole
in those dilapidated buildings swarmed with a family; every corner
of the leaky garrets and damp cellars was full of poverty-stricken
life. Here were no green trees, no leaf-clad vines climbing upon the
walls; empty casks, old brooms, and battered wash-tubs littered the
back yards, which the sweet fresh grass should have carpeted. Ash
pans and tubs of kitchen offal choked up the areas. The very light,
as it struggled through those dingy windows, seemed pinched and smoky.
All this contrast of poverty and wealth lay in the policeman's beat.
Now he was with the rich, almost warmed by the light that came like
a flood of wine through some tall window muffled in crimson damask.
The smooth pavements under his feet glowed with brilliant gas-light.
The next moment, and a few smoky street lamps failed to reveal the
broken flagging on which he trod. Now and then the gleam of a coarse
tallow candle swaling gloomily away by some sick bed, threw its murky
light across his path. Still, but for the cold moonlight, Chester
would have found much difficulty in making his rounds in the poor
man's district. Yet here he remained longest; here his step always
grew heavy and his brow thoughtful. Surrounded by suffering, shut
out from his eyes only by those irregular walls, and clouded, as it
were, with the slumbering sorrow around him, this dark place always
cast him into painful thought. That cold night he was more than
usually affected by the suffering which he knew was close to him,
and only invisible to the eye.
The night before, he had entered one of those dismal houses and had
taken from thence a woman who, squalid and degraded as she was, had
evidently once been in the higher walks of life. As he passed her
dwelling, the remembrance of this woman sent a thrill of mingled pity
and disgust through his heart. The miserable destitution of her home,
the glimpses of refinement that broke through her outbursts of
passion, the state of revolting intoxication in which she was
plunged--all arose vividly to his mind. He paused before the house
with a feeling of vague interest. The night before, a scene of perfect
riot greeted him as he approached the door. Now the inmates seemed
numbed, silent and torpid with cold.
As Chester stood gazing on the house, he saw that the door was open,
and fancied that some object was moving in the hall. It seemed at
first like a lame animal creeping down the steps. As it came forth
into the moonlight, Chester saw that it was a child with a singular,
crouching appearance, muffled in an old red cloak that had belonged
to some grown person. With a slow and painful effort the child dragged
itself along the pavement, its face bent down, and stooping, as if
it had some burden to conceal. The old cloak brushed Chester's
garments, yet the child seemed quite unconscious of his presence,
but moved on, breathing hard and shuddering with the cold, till he
could hear her teeth knock together. Chester did not speak, but softly
followed the child.
The Mayor of New York at that time lived within Chester's beat, and
toward his dwelling the little wanderer bent her way. As she drew
near the steps, the child lifted her face for the first time, and
reaching forth a little wan hand, held herself up by the railing.
She was not seeking that particular house, but there her strength
gave way, and she clung to the cold iron, faint and trembling, with
her eyes lifted wildly towards the drawing-room windows.
The plate glass was all in a blaze from a chandelier that hung within,
and the genial glow fell upon that little frost-bitten face, lighting
it up with intense lustre. The face was not beautiful--those features
were too pale--the eyes large and hollow, while black lashes of
unusual length gave them a wild depth of color that was absolutely
fearful. Still there was something in the expression of those wan
features indescribably touching--a look of meek suffering and of moral
strength unnatural in its development. It was the face of a child,
suffering, feeble, with the expression of a holy spirit breaking
through, holy but tortured.
The child clung to the railing, waving to and fro, but holding on
with a desperate grasp. She seemed struggling to lift herself to an
upright position, but without sufficient strength. Chester advanced
a step to help her, but drew back, for, without perceiving him, she
was creeping feebly up the steps, with her face shrouded in darkness
again. She reached the bell with difficulty, and drew the silver knob.
Scarcely had the child taken her hand from the cold metal, when the
shadow of a man crossed the drawing-room window, and his measured
step sounded along the oilcloth in the hall. The door was unfastened,
and the Mayor himself stood in the opening. The child lifted her eyes,
and saw standing before, or rather above her, a tall man with light
hair turning grey, and a cast of features remarkable only for an
absence of all generous expression. He fixed his cold eyes on the
little wanderer with a look that chilled her worse than the frost.
As he prepared to speak, she could see the corners of his mouth curve
haughtily downward, and when his voice fell upon her ear, though not
particularly loud, it was cold and repelling.
"Well, what are you doing here? What do you want?" said the great
man, keeping his eyes immovably on the shivering child, enraged at
himself for having opened the door for a miserable beggar like that.
He was in the habit of extending these little condescensions to the
voters of his ward; it had a touch of republicanism in it that looked
well; but from that wretched little thing what was to be gained? Still
the child might have a father, and that father might be a citizen,
one of the sovereign people, possessed of that inestimable
privilege--a vote. So the Mayor was cautious, as usual, about
exhibiting any positive traces of the ill-humor that possessed him.
He had not groped and grovelled his way to the Mayoralty, without
knowing how and when to exhibit the evil feelings of his heart. Those
that were not evil he very prudently left to themselves, knowing that
they could never obtain strength enough in his barren nature to become
in the slightest degree troublesome.
Had kindly feelings still lived in his bosom, they must have been
aroused by the sweet, humble voice that answered him.
"They have turned me out of doors. I am hungry, sir. I am very cold."
"Turned you out of doors! Where is your father? Can't he take care
of you?"
"I have no father--he is dead."
No father, no vote! The little beggar had not the most indirect claim
for sympathy or forbearance from the Mayor of New York. He could
afford to be angry with her; nay, better, to seem angry also, and
that was an uncommon luxury with him.
"Well, why didn't you go to the basement?"
"It was dark there--and through that window everything looked so
warm--I could not help it!"
"Could not help it, indeed! Go away! I never encourage street beggars.
It would be doing a wrong to the people who look up to me for an
example. Go away this minute--how dare you come up to this door? You
are a bad little girl, I dare say!"
"No sir--no--no, I am _not_ bad! Please not to say that. It hurts me
worse than the cold!" said the child, raising her sweet voice and
clasping her little wan hands, while over her features many a wounded
feeling trembled, though she gave no signs of weeping.
What a contrast there was between the heartless face of that man,
and the meek, truthful look of the child! How cold and harsh seemed
his voice after the troubled melody of hers!
"I tell you, there is no use in attempting to deceive me. Station
houses are built on purpose for little thieves that prowl about at
night!" and the cold-hearted man half closed the door, adding, "go
away--go away! Some policeman will take you to a station house, though
I dare be sworn you know how to find one without help."
The door was closed with these words, shutting the desolate child
into the cold night again. She neither complained nor wept; but
sinking on the stone, gathered her frail limbs in a heap and buried
her face in the old cloak.
Chester heard the whole conversation; he saw the expression of meek
despair which fell upon the child as the door closed against her,
and with a swelling heart mounted the steps.
"My little girl," he said very gently, touching the crouching form
with his hand, "my poor, little girl!"
The child looked up wildly, for the very benevolence of his voice
frightened her, she was so unused to anything of the kind; but the
instant her eyes fell upon his bosom, where the silver star glittered
in the moonlight, she uttered a faint shriek.
"Oh, do not--do not take me--I am not a thief--I am not wicked!" and
she shrunk back into a corner of the iron railing shuddering, and
with her wild eyes bent upon him like some little wounded animal
hunted down by fierce dogs.
"Don't be frightened--I will take care of you--I"--
"They took _her_--the policemen, I mean. Where is she? What have you
done with her?"
"But I wish to be kind," said Chester, greatly distressed; she
interrupted him, pointing to his star with her finger.
"Kind? see--see. I tell you I am not a thief!"
"I know, I am sure you are not," was the compassionate answer.
"Then why take me up if I am not a thief?"
"But you will perish with the cold!"
"No--no; it's not so very cold here since the gentleman went away!"
cried the child in a faint voice, muffling the old cloak close around
her, and trying to smile. "Only--only"--
Her voice grew fainter. She had just strength to draw up her knees,
clasp the little thin hands over them, and in attempting to rock
herself upon the cold stone to prove how comfortable she was, fell
forward dizzy and insensible.
"Great Heavens! this is terrible," cried Chester, gathering up the
child in his arms.
Agitated beyond all self-control, he gave the bell-knob a jerk that
made the Mayor start from his seat with a violence that threw one
of his well-trodden slippers half across the hearth-rug.
"Who is coming now?" muttered the great man, thrusting his foot into
the truant slipper with a peevish jerk, for he had taken supper at
the City Hall that evening, and after a temperance movement of that
kind, the luxurious depth of his easy-chair was always inviting.
"Will that bell never have done? These gas-lights--I verily believe
they entice beggars to the door; besides, that great Irish girl has
lighted double the number I ordered," and, with a keen regard to the
economy of his household, the Chief Magistrate of New York mounted
a chair and turned off four of the six burners that had been lighted
in the chandelier. Another sharp ring brought him to the carpet, and
to the street-door again. There he found Chester with the little
beggar girl in his arms, her eyes shut and her face pale as death,
save where a faint violet color lay about the mouth.
"Sir, this child, you have driven her from your door--she is dying!"
said Chester, passing with his burden into the hall and moving towards
the drawing-room, from which the light of an anthracite fire glowed
warm; and ruddily "she needs warmth. I believe in my soul she is
starving!"
"Well, sir, why do you bring her here--who are you? Is there no
station-house? I do not receive beggars in my drawing-room!" said
the Mayor, following the policeman.
Chester, heedless of his remonstrance, strode across the carpet and
laid the wretched child tenderly into the great crimson chair which
"his honor" had just so reluctantly abandoned. Wheeling the chair
close to the fire, he knelt on the rug and began to chafe those thin
purple hands between his own.
"I could not take her anywhere else--she was dying with cold--a minute
was life or death to her," said Chester, lifting his fine eyes to
the sullen countenance of the Mayor, and speaking in a tone of
apology.
The Mayor bent his eyes on that manly face, so warm and eloquent with
benevolent feeling; then, just turned his glance over the deathly
form of the child.
"You will oblige me by moving that bundle of rags from my chair!"
he said.
"But she is dying!" cried the policeman, trembling all over with
generous indignation; "she may be dead now!"
"Very well, this is no place for a coroner's inquest," was the terse
reply.
The policeman half started up, and in his indignation almost crushed
one of the little hands that he had been chafing.
"Sir, this is inhuman--it is shameful."
"Do you know where you are?--whom you are speaking to?" said the great
man, growing pale about the mouth, but subduing his passion with
wonderful firmness.
"Yes, I know well enough. This is your house, and you are the Mayor
of New York!"
"And you--may I have the honor of knowing who it is that favors my
poor dwelling, and with company like that!" said the Mayor, pointing
to the child, while his upper lip contracted and the corners of his
mouth drooped into a cold sneer.
"Yes, sir, you can know: I am a policeman of this ward, appointed
by your predecessor--a just and good man; my name is John Chester.
Taking pity on this forlorn little creature, I followed her from a
house whence she had crept out into the cold, hoping to be of some
use; she came up here, and rang at your door. I heard what passed
between you. As a citizen, I should have been ashamed, had I
unfortunately been among those who placed you in power; I must say
it--your conduct to this poor starved thing, shocked me beyond
utterance. I thank God that no vote of mine aided to lift you where
you are."
"And so you are a policeman of this ward. Very well," said the Mayor;
and the sneer upon his face died away while he began to pace the room,
the soft fall of his slippers upon the carpet giving a cat-like
stillness to his movements.
He felt that a man who could thus fearlessly speak out his just
indignation, was not the kind of person to persecute openly. Besides,
it was not in this man's nature to do anything openly. Like a mole,
he burrowed out his plans under ground, and when forced to brave the
daylight, always cunningly allowed some pliant tool to remove the
earth that was unavoidably cast up in his passage. His genius lay
in that low cunning and prudent management, with which small men of
little intellect and no heart sometimes deceive the world. He had
long outlived all feelings sufficiently strong to render him
impetuous, and was utterly devoid of that generous self-respect which
prompts a man to repel an attack fearlessly and at once. In short,
he was one of those who _lie still and wait_, like the crafty pointer
dogs that creep along the grass, hunting out game for others to shoot
down for them, and devouring the spoil with a keener relish than the
noble hound that makes the forest ring as he plunges upon his prey.
True to his character and his system, the Mayor paused in his walk,
and, bending over the child, said coldly, but still with some
appearance of feeling--
"She seems to be getting better--probably it will be nothing serious!"
Chester looked up, and a smile illuminated his face. Always willing
to look on the bright side of human nature, his generous heart smote
him for having perhaps judged too harshly. The little hand which he
was chafing began to warm with life; this relieved him of the terrible
excitement which the moment before had rendered his words, if just,
more than imprudent.
"Thank you, sir, she _is_ better," he said, with an expression of
frank gratitude beaming over every feature, "I think she will live
now, so we will only trouble you a few minutes longer."
"My family are in bed--and these street beggars are so little to be
relied upon," observed the Mayor, evidently wishing to offer some
excuse for his former harshness, without doing so directly; "but this
seems a case of real distress."
Chester was subdued by this speech. More and more he regretted the
excitement of his former language. He longed to make some reparation
to a man who, after all, might be only prudent, not unfeeling.
"If," said he, looking at the child, whose features began to quiver
in the glowing fire-light, "if I had a drop of wine now."
"Oh, we are temperance people here, you know," replied the Mayor,
coldly.
"Or anything warm," persisted Chester, as the child opened her eyes
with a famished look.
"You can get wine at the station-house. My girls are in bed."
"I am afraid she will have small hopes of help at the station-house.
The Common Council make no provision for medical aid where the sick
or starving are brought in at night. It is a great omission, sir."
"The Common Council cannot do everything," replied the Mayor, becoming
impatient, but still subduing himself.
"I know sir, but its first duty is to the poor."
"Oh, yes, no one denies that;" replied the Mayor, observing with
satisfaction that Chester was preparing to remove the little intruder.
"You will not have a very long walk," he added. "The station-house
is not more than eight or ten blocks off. She will be strong enough,
I fancy, to get so far."
"Don't, don't take me there! I am not a thief!" murmured the child,
and two great tears rolled over her cheek slowly, as if the fire-light
had with difficulty thawed them out from her heart.
They were answered--God bless the policeman--they were answered by
a whole gush of tears that sprang into his fine eyes, and sparkled
there like so many diamonds.
"No," he said, taking off his overcoat, and wrapping it around the
child, his hands and arms shaking with eager pity as he lifted her
from the chair. "She shall go home with me for one night at least.
I will say to my wife, 'Here is a little hungry thing whom God has
sent you from the street.' She will be welcome, sir. I am sure she
will be as welcome as if I were to carry home a casket of gold in
my bosom. Will you go home with me, little girl?"
The child turned her large eyes upon him; a smile of ineffable
sweetness floated over her face, and drawing a deep breath, she said:
"Oh, yes, I will go!"
"You will excuse the trouble," said Chester, turning with his burden
toward the Mayor as he went out, "the case seemed so urgent!"
"Oh, it is all excused," replied his honor, bowing stiffly as he
walked towards the door, "but I shall remember--never doubt that!"
he muttered with a smile, in which all the inward duplicity of his
nature shone out.
That instant a carriage drove up to the door, and after some bustle
a lady entered, followed by a young lad, who paused a moment on the
upper step and gave some orders to the coachman in a clear, cheerful
voice, that seemed out of place in that house.
"Why don't you come in?" cried the lady, folding her rose-colored
opera-cloak closely around her, "you fill the whole house with cold."
"In a moment--in a moment," cried the boy, breaking into a snatch
of opera music as if haunted by some melody; "but pray send Tim out
a glass of wine, or he will freeze on the box this Greenland night."
"Nonsense! come in!" cried the mother, entering the drawing-room and
approaching the fire. Here she threw back her opera-cloak, revealing
a rich brocade dress underneath, lighted up with jewels and covered
as with a mist of fine lace! "he'll do well enough--come to the fire!"
she continued, holding out her hands in their snowy gloves for warmth.
The lady had not noticed Chester, who stood back in the hall, that
she might pass. Applicants of all kinds were so common at her
dwelling, even at late hours, that she seldom paused, even to regard
a stranger. But the noble-looking lad was far more quick-sighted.
As he turned reluctantly to close the door, Chester advanced with
the little girl in his arms, and would have passed.
"What is this?--what is the matter?--is she sick?" inquired the boy,
earnestly.
"She is a poor, homeless child, half frozen and almost famished,"
answered Chester.
"Homeless on a night like this!--hungry and cold!" exclaimed the lad,
throwing off his Spanish cloak and tossing his cap to the hall table.
"Come back, till she gets thoroughly warm, and I'll soon ransack the
kitchen for eatables; a glass of Madeira now to begin with. Lady
Mother, come and look at this little girl--it's a sin and a shame
to see anything with a soul reduced to this."
"What is it, Fred?" cried the lady, sweeping across the drawing-room;
"oh, I see, a little beggar girl! Why don't you let the man pass?
He's taken her up for something, I dare say."
"No," said Chester with a faint hope of getting food; "it is want,
nothing worse--she is frozen and starved."
"What a pity, and the authorities make such provision for the poor,
too! I declare, Mr. Farnham, you ought to stop this sort of thing--it
is scandalous to have one's house haunted with such frightful
objects."
Young Farnham drew toward his mother, flushed and eager.
"If the girls are in bed, let me go down and search for something,
the poor child looks so forlorn."
As he pleaded with his mother the hall light lay full upon him, and
never did benevolence look more beautiful on a young face. It must
have been a cold-hearted person, indeed, who could have resisted those
fine, earnest eyes, and that manner so full of generous grace.
"Come, mother, music should open one's heart--may I go?"
"Nonsense, Fred, what would you be at? The man is in a hurry to go.
Why can't you be reasonable for once," replied the weak woman,
glancing at her husband, who was walking angrily up and down the
drawing-room; and sinking her voice she added:
"See, your father is out of sorts; do come in!"
"In a moment--in a moment," answered, the youth, moving up the hall
and searching eagerly in his pockets--"stop, my dear fellow, don't
be in such a confounded hurry--oh, here it is."
The lad drew forth a portmonnaie, and emptied the only bit of gold
it contained into his hand.
"Here, here," he said, blushing to the temples and forcing it upon
Chester; "I haven't a doubt that everything is eaten up in the house,
but this will go a little way. You are a fine fellow, I can see that;
don't let the poor thing suffer--if help is wanted, I'm always on
hand for a trifle like that; but good night, good night, the governor
is getting fractious, and my lady mother will take cold--good night."
Chester grasped the hand so frankly extended, and moved down the
steps, cheered by the noble sympathy so unexpected in that place.
"You will understand," said the Mayor, turning short upon poor Fred,
as he entered the room, "you will please to understand, sir, that
to station yourself on my door-steps and call for wine as if you were
in a tavern, is an insult to your father's principles. It is not to
be supposed that this house contains Madeira or any other alcoholic
drink. Remember, sir, that your father is the chief magistrate of
New York, and the head of a popular principle."
"But why may I not request wine for a poor child suffering for warmth
and food, when we have it every now and then on the dinner table?"
inquired the boy seriously.
"You are mistaken; you are too young for explanations of this kind,"
answered the father sternly; "we never have wine on the table, except
when certain men are here. When did you ever see even an empty glass
there, when our temperance friends visit us?"
The boy did not answer, but kept his fine honest eyes fixed on his
father, and their half astonished, half grieved expression disturbed
the politician, who really loved his son.
"You are not old enough to understand the duties of a public station
like mine, Frederick; a politician, to be successful, must be a little
of all things to all men."
"Then I, for one, will never be a politician," exclaimed the boy,
while childish tears were struggling with manly indignation.
"God forbid that you ever should," was the thought that rose in the
father's heart; for there was yet one green spot in his nature kept
fresh by love of his only son.
"And," continued the boy still more impetuously, "I will never drink
another glass of wine in my life. What is wrong for the poor is wrong
for the rich. What I may not give to a suffering child, I will not
drink myself."
"Now that is going a little too far, I should say, Fred," interposed
Mrs. Farnham, softly withdrawing her gloves, and allowing the
fire-light to flash over her diamond rings; "my opinion has long been
that whisky punches, brandy what-do-you-call-'ems, and things of that
sort, are decidedly immoral; but champaigne and Madeira, sherry
coblers--a vulgar name that--always puts one in mind of low
shoemakers--don't it Mr. Farnham? if it wasn't for the glass tubes
and cut-crystal goblets, that beverage ought to be legislated on.
Well, Fred, as I was saying, refreshments like these are gentlemanly,
and I rather approve of them, so don't let me hear more nonsense about
your drinking wine in a quiet way, you know, and with the right set.
Isn't this about the medium, Mr. Farnham?"
The Mayor, who usually allowed the wisdom of his lady to flow by him
like the wind, did not choose to answer this sapient appeal, but
observed curtly, that he had some writing to do, and should like,
as soon as convenient, to be left to himself. Upon this the lady
folded her white gloves spitefully and left the room, tossing her
head till the marabouts on each side of her coiffure trembled like
drifting snow-flakes, while she muttered something about husbands
and bears, which sounded very much as if she mingled the two
unpleasantly together in her ideas of natural history.
Frederick followed his mother with a serious and grieved demeanor,
taking leave of his father with a respectful "good night," which the
Mayor, dissatisfied with himself, and consequently angry, did not
deign to notice.
When left to himself, the Mayor impatiently rang a bell connected
with the kitchen. This brought a hard-faced Irish woman to the room,
who was ordered to wheel the easy-chair into the hall, and have it
thoroughly aired the first thing in the morning. After that he gave
her a brief reprimand for exceeding his directions regarding the
gas-lights, and dismissed her for the night.
After she disappeared, the Mayor continued to pace up and down the
room, meditating over the scene that had just transpired.
"I was right in smoothing the thing over," he muttered; "one never
cares for the report of a little beggar like that. Who would believe
her? But this Chester might tell the thing in a way that would prove
awkward; a man like him has no business in the police. He thinks for
himself and acts for himself, I'll be sworn; besides, he is a fine,
gentlemanly-looking fellow, and somehow the people get attached to
such men, and are influenced by them. It always pleases me to twist
the star from a breast like that. It shall be done!" he added,
suddenly. "His language to me, a magistrate, is reason enough for
breaking him; but then I must not bring the complaint. It can be
managed without that."
Thus gently musing over his hopes of vengeance on a man, who,
belonging to an adverse party, had dared to speak the truth rather
too eloquently in his presence, the Mayor spent perhaps half an hour
very much in his usual way; for he had always some small plot to ripen
just before retiring for the night, and his plan of vengeance on poor
Chester was only a little more piquant than others, because it was
more directly personal.