He meant, as he briefly explained, the usual System, and back of it the
usual Boss: one Ryan, owner of the Ottoman saloon and the city of
Hunston, who held the town in the hollow of his coarse hand, and was
slowly squeezing it to death.

"The election," he went on listlessly, "is only two weeks off, but the
rascal isn't lifting a finger. He doesn't have to. To-morrow night he
holds what he calls his annual 'town-meeting'--a fake and a joke. The
trustful people gather, listen to speeches by Ryan retainers, quaff free
lemonade. Nominally, everybody is invited to speak; really only the
elect are permitted to. I saw a reform candidate try it once, and it was
interesting to see how scientifically they put a crimp in him."

"And J. Pinkney Hare?" queried Varney becoming rather interested.

Was everything, the young man explained, that Ryan was not--able,
honest, unselfish, public-spirited. Studying the situation quietly for a
year, he had uncovered a most unholy trail of graft leading to high
places. But when he began to try to tell the people about it, he found
his way hopelessly blocked at every turn.

"He can't even hire a hall," summarized the stranger. "Not to save his
immortal soul. That was the meaning of the ludicrous exhibition a few
minutes ago. In one word, he can't get a hearing. He might talk with the
tongues of men and angels, but nobody will listen to him. It is a dirty
shame. But what in the world can you expect? Lift a finger against the
gang, and, presto, your job's gone, and you can't find another high or
low. Ryan's money goes everywhere--into the schools, the church, the
press. The press. That, of course, is the System's most powerful ally.