Adventure Magazine Cover — page 174: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

930 ‘‘Good morning, everybody!” rushed on Mr. Burrow, with a genial wave of his hand and a smile of benediction for the waiting minions. ‘This second Alexander the Great knew that you can abuse a man’s patience if you are a person of importance and smile blandly enough. Some of the Cesars could even massacre and remain popular—but they had to smile very winningly. ‘Terri- bly busy! Must make all interviews brief this morning,’”’ went on the new dictator. ‘‘Must get over to the City Hall!” Then in view of congealing acidity on the visages of three newspaper men, he added, since no man is great enough to offend a reporter: “Tl have a big story for you boys to-mor- row. You know I’m your friend.” He swept Mr. Copewell into the private office and the door slammed on his smile. ‘“‘T haf been sedding here for an hour alretty,”’ confided Alderman Grotz to his next neighbor. The Alderman’s heavy lids sblinked with a stolid, bovine disapproval. “Der more I vait, der more I do not see him. Id iss nod right!” Alderman Grotz was reported to carry the lager and bratwurst vote about in the pocket of his ample, plaid waistcoat. Such discrimination against him was venturesome politics. “That guy that went in there ain’t like us,” explained Tommy Deveran, whose florid oratory had been the machine’s prized asset until the drift of political straws had guided him toward reform. ‘He wears silk half-hose where you an’ me wears cotton socks. This here is a classy, high-brow administration. Myself not bein’ no cotil- lion-leader, I’m goin’ to beat it!” The Hon. Thomas rose and beat it in all the majesty of affronted dignity. INSIDE, Mr. Copewell threw his hat and stick on the desk and him- self into a chair. He commenced to speak and suddenly stopped. A fine flow of high-pressure language was arrested by the sight of Chief-of-Police Swager, sitting just across the room. ‘The Chief rose and took up his gold-trimmed cap. The new admin- istration had added to the pulchritude of its police officials by more jaunty uniforms. The Colonel felt conscious of a distinguished and military bearing. “I’m going to shift Captain McGarvey from the Tenderloin—if you don’t object,” he announced. Mr. Burrow did not object. He did not Adventure know who Captain McGarvey was, but that fact he did not mention. ‘‘What for, Chief, what for?” he inquired brightly. His air was that of a field-marshal for whom no little thing is too small to merit con- sideration. “Well,” thoughtfully pursued Colonel Swager, ‘I doubt if he’s on the level, though I haven’t got him dead to rights yet—can’t prefer charges. McGarvey’s a machine hold-over and he’s likely to be a little blind in one eye where some of the thieves and yeggs that used to buy protection are con- cerned. ‘Rat’ Connors was seen last night, down at Corkhill’s place. You know ‘Rat’ Connors?” ; Mr. Burrow had not that honor. The name was not on the membership books of his clubs. ‘“‘Let’s see—” he repeated carefully, “Rat Connors, Rat Connors. I don’t, at the moment, seem to place him.” ‘“‘Second-story man, drum-snuffer, stone- pincher, porch-climber—general all-round expert,”’ illuminatingly itemized the Chief, ‘variously wanted for a large assortment of felonies. McGarvey ought to have ditched him.” “Ah, yes, quite so,” agreed Mr. Burrow. Mr. Copewell petulantly shifted in his chair. These matters seemed to him extremely trivial in view of his own more engrossing affairs. ‘This Connors party,’ enlarged the Chief, halting a moment by the door and inspect- ing with pride the gold oak-leaves that went around his cap like a garland of greatness, “he’s a solemn little runt with one front tooth broke and one finger gone off the left hand. He’s got straight black hair and a face like a rat. He looks like a half-witted kid, but he’s there with the goods.” Mr. Burrow nodded. “Go right after him, Chief,’ he authorized, “I give you carte blanche.” Exit the Chief, and in his wake appears at the door the accusing face of the young woman stenographer. ‘‘ Alderman Grotz insists ” she began. “Impossible!” sighed Mr. Burrow drop- ping into an easy chair. “I’m rushed to death just now.” He gazed off across the roofs and searched his pockets for a cigar- ette. ‘Let him wait—let ’em all wait,” he murmured restfully. ‘‘That’s good poli- tics.’ Then, turning to Copewell, whose cComicbook CO