Life does shifty things, he is forced to reflect in a most puzzled way.
Never would he have believed it!
“Schryhart,” he declared to Frankhauser, “will never come in.
He will die first.
Poor old Timothy—if he were alive—he wouldn’t either.”
“Leave Mr. Schryhart out of it, for Heaven’s sake,” pleaded Mr. Frankhauser, a genial American German.
“Haven’t I troubles enough?”
Mr. Schryhart is enraged.
Never! never! never!
He will sell out first—but he is in a minority, and Mr. Frankhauser, for Mr. Fishel or Mr. Haeckelheimer, will gladly take his holdings.
Now behold in the autumn of 1897 all rival Chicago street-railway lines brought to Mr. Cowperwood on a platter, as it were—a golden platter.
“Ve haff it fixed,” confidentially declared Mr. Gotloeb to Mr. Cowperwood, over an excellent dinner in the sacred precincts of the Metropolitan Club in New York.
Time, 8.30 P.M. Wine—sparkling burgundy.
“A telegram come shusst to-day from Frankhauser.
A nice man dot.
You shouldt meet him sometime.
Hant—he sells out his stock to Frankhauser.
Merrill unt Edward Arneel vork vit us.
Ve hantle efferyt’ing for dem.
Mr. Fishel vill haff his friends pick up all de local shares he can, unt mit dees tree ve control de board.
Schryhart iss out.
He sess he vill resign.
Very goot. I don’t subbose dot vill make you veep any.
It all hintges now on vether you can get dot fifty-year-franchise ordinance troo de city council or not.
Haeckelheimer sess he prefers you to all utters to run t’ings.
He vill leef everytink positifely in your hands.
Frankhauser sess de same.
Vot Haeckelheimer sess he doess.
Now dere you are.
It’s up to you.
I vish you much choy.
It is no small chop you haff, beating de newspapers, unt you still haff Hant unt Schryhart against you.
Mr. Haeckelheimer askt me to pay his complimends to you unt to say vill you dine vit him next veek, or may he dine vit you—vicheffer iss most conveniend. So.”
In the mayor’s chair of Chicago at this time sat a man named Walden H. Lucas.
Aged thirty-eight, he was politically ambitious. He had the elements of popularity—the knack or luck of fixing public attention.
A fine, upstanding, healthy young buck he was, subtle, vigorous, a cool, direct, practical thinker and speaker, an eager enigmatic dreamer of great political honors to come, anxious to play his cards just right, to make friends, to be the pride of the righteous, and yet the not too uncompromising foe of the wicked.
In short, a youthful, hopeful Western Machiavelli, and one who could, if he chose, serve the cause of the anti-Cowperwood struggle exceedingly well indeed.
Cowperwood, disturbed, visits the mayor in his office.
“Mr. Lucas, what is it you personally want?
What can I do for you?
Is it future political preferment you are after?”
“Mr. Cowperwood, there isn’t anything you can do for me.
You do not understand me, and I do not understand you.
You cannot understand me because I am an honest man.”
“Ye gods!” replied Cowperwood.
“This is certainly a case of self-esteem and great knowledge.
Good afternoon.”
Shortly thereafter the mayor was approached by one Mr. Carker, who was the shrewd, cold, and yet magnetic leader of Democracy in the state of New York.
Said Carker:
“You see, Mr. Lucas, the great money houses of the East are interested in this local contest here in Chicago.