other to use his position "to help in making the city a better
place in which to live and work for those to whom the conditions
of life and labor were hardest." These night wanderings of
"Haroun al Roosevelt," as some one successfully ticketed him in
allusion to the great Caliph's similar expeditions, were
powerful aids to the tightening up of discipline and to the
encouragement of good work by patrolmen and roundsmen. The
unfaithful or the easy-going man on the beat, who allowed himself
to be beguiled by the warmth and cheer of a saloon back-room, or
to wander away from his duty for his own purposes, was likely to
be confronted by the black slouch hat and the gleaming spectacles
of a tough-set figure that he knew as the embodiment of
relentless justice. But the faithful knew no less surely that he
was their best friend and champion.

In the old days of "the system," not only appointment to the
force and promotion, but recognition of exceptional achievement
went by favor. The policeman who risked his life in the pursuit
of duty and accomplished some big thing against great odds could
not be sure of the reward to which he was entitled unless he had
political pull. It was even the rule in the Department that the
officer who spoiled his uniform in rescuing man, woman, or child
from the waters of the river must get a new one at his own
expense. "The system" knew neither justice nor fair play. It knew
nothing but the cynical phrase of Richard Croker, Tammany Hall's
famous boss, "my own pocket all the time." But Roosevelt changed
all that. He had not been in Mulberry Street a month before that
despicable rule about the uniform was blotted out. His whole term
of office on the Police Board was marked by acts of recognition
of bravery and faithful service. Many times he had to dig the