The clerk will call the roll.”
The Clerk (reading the names, beginning with the A’s).
“Altvast?” (pro-Cowperwood). Alderman Altvast.
“Yea.” Fear had conquered him.
Alderman Tiernan (to Alderman Kerrigan).
“Well, there’s one baby down.”
Alderman Kerrigan.
“Yep.”
“Ballenberg?” (Pro-Cowperwood; the man who had introduced the ordinance.)
“Yea.”
Alderman Tiernan.
“Say, has Ballenberg weakened?”
Alderman Kerrigan.
“It looks that way.”
“Canna?”
“Yea.”
“Fogarty?”
“Yea.”
Alderman Tiernan (nervously).
“There goes Fogarty.”
“Hvranek?”
“Yea.”
Alderman Tiernan.
“And Hvranek!”
Alderman Kerrigan (referring to the courage of his colleagues).
“It’s coming out of their hair.”
In exactly eighty seconds the roll-call was in and Cowperwood had lost—41 to 25.
It was plain that the ordinance could never be revived.
Chapter LXII. The Recompense
You have seen, perhaps, a man whose heart was weighted by a great woe.
You have seen the eye darken, the soul fag, and the spirit congeal under the breath of an icy disaster.
At ten-thirty of this particular evening Cowperwood, sitting alone in the library of his Michigan Avenue house, was brought face to face with the fact that he had lost.
He had built so much on the cast of this single die.
It was useless to say to himself that he could go into the council a week later with a modified ordinance or could wait until the storm had died out.
He refused himself these consolations.
Already he had battled so long and so vigorously, by every resource and subtlety which his mind had been able to devise.
All week long on divers occasions he had stood in the council-chamber where the committee had been conducting its hearings.
Small comfort to know that by suits, injunctions, appeals, and writs to intervene he could tie up this transit situation and leave it for years and years the prey of lawyers, the despair of the city, a hopeless muddle which would not be unraveled until he and his enemies should long be dead.
This contest had been so long in the brewing, he had gone about it with such care years before.
And now the enemy had been heartened by a great victory.
His aldermen, powerful, hungry, fighting men all—like those picked soldiers of the ancient Roman emperors—ruthless, conscienceless, as desperate as himself, had in their last redoubt of personal privilege fallen, weakened, yielded.
How could he hearten them to another struggle—how face the blazing wrath of a mighty populace that had once learned how to win?
Others might enter here—Haeckelheimer, Fishel, any one of a half-dozen Eastern giants—and smooth out the ruffled surface of the angry sea that he had blown to fury.
But as for him, he was tired, sick of Chicago, sick of this interminable contest.
Only recently he had promised himself that if he were to turn this great trick he would never again attempt anything so desperate or requiring so much effort.
He would not need to.
The size of his fortune made it of little worth.
Besides, in spite of his tremendous vigor, he was getting on.
Since he had alienated Aileen he was quite alone, out of touch with any one identified with the earlier years of his life.
His all-desired Berenice still evaded him.