Michael Blaney was a man of the people. He was tall and angular, hands and
face seamed and leathery from the work of earlier days, eyes small and
keen, and a scraggy mustache, that petered out at the ends. He had risen
by slow but sure stages from a struggling contractor with no pull, to be
the absolute monarch of six wards; and as the other seven wards were
divided between the pro- and anti-pavers, Blaney held the municipal reins.
He still derived an income from city contracts, but his name did not
appear on the bids.

After dinner Mr. McNally led the way to his room, and in a few words
announced that he had come for the M. & T. stock. Blaney tipped back in
his chair and shook his head.

"Can't do it, Mr. McNally. It ain't for sale."

"So I heard," said McNally, quietly, "but I want it."

"You see it's like this. When they were building the line, we took the
stock on a special act--"

"I understand all that," McNally interrupted. "That can be fixed."

Williams, one of the other two, leaned over the table.

"We ain't fools enough to go up against Jim Weeks," he said.

"Don't worry about Weeks," replied McNally, "I can take care of him."

"Who are you buying for?" asked Blaney.