The powers that ruled the First--quiet shrewd men who knew how to make
and to take profits, the very flower of commercialism--were
frightened. They saw in the prominence of the dead man a real
opportunity for their momentary enemies the press. For weeks they had
been sitting quietly, weathering the storm of public disapproval. In
their minds they thought of the ward as a kingdom in itself, something
foreign and apart from the city. Among their followers were men who
had not been across the Van Buren Street line into foreign territory
for years.
Suddenly through the minds of these men floated a menace. Like the
small soft-speaking boss the ward gripped its fist conclusively.
Through the streets and alleys ran a cry, a warning. Like birds of
prey disturbed in their nesting places they fluttered, uttering cries.
Throwing his stogie into the gutter Henry Hunt ran through the ward.
From house to house he uttered his cry--"Lay low! Pull off nothing."
The little boss in his office at the front of his saloon looked from
Henry Hunt to the police official. "It is no time for hesitation," he
said. "It will prove a boon if we act quickly. We have got to arrest
and try that murderer and do it now. Who is our man? Quick. Let's have
action."
Henry Hunt lighted a fresh stogie.
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