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Updated: June 17, 2025
It won't be advisable to delay a cable-train from eight to fifteen minutes while boats are making their way through a draw. The public won't stand for that very long, will it, do you think?" "Not without making a row, probably," replied McKenty. "Well, that means what, then?" asked Cowperwood. "Is the traffic going to get any lighter? Is the river going to dry up?" Mr. McKenty stared.
There's going to be a new motor power introduced on the South Side within a year or two. You've heard of it?" "I read something of it," replied McKenty, surprised and a little questioning. He took a cigar and prepared to listen. Cowperwood, never smoking, drew up a chair. "Well, I'll tell you what that means," he explained.
McKenty by sight, and I've seen Mr. Cowperwood once." He said no more. "Well," said Mr.
He liked life even its very difficult complications perhaps its complications best of all. Nature was beautiful, tender at times, but difficulties, plans, plots, schemes to unravel and make smooth these things were what made existence worth while. "Well now, Mr. Cowperwood," McKenty began, when they finally entered the cool, pleasant library, "what can I do for you?" "Well, Mr.
McKenty, being a little dubious of the outcome, had a rocking-chair brought into the council-chamber itself during the hours when the ordinances were up for consideration. In this he sat, presumably as a curious spectator, actually as a master dictating the course of liquidation in hand. Neither Cowperwood nor any one else knew of McKenty's action until too late to interfere with it.
Addison and Videra, when they read about it as sneeringly set forth in the news columns of the papers, lifted and then wrinkled their eyebrows. "That looks like pretty rough work to me," commented Addison. "I thought McKenty had more tact. That's his early Irish training."
If the Democratic party was in any danger of losing this fall, and if Gilgan was honest in his desire to divide and control, it might not be such a bad thing. Neither Cowperwood, McKenty, nor Dowling had ever favored him in any particular way. If they lost through him, and he could still keep himself in power, they would have to make terms with him. There was no chance of their running him out.
Yet the man had the air and the poise of a gentleman. To-day, at forty-eight, McKenty was an exceedingly important personage. His roomy house on the West Side, at Harrison Street and Ashland Avenue, was visited at sundry times by financiers, business men, office-holders, priests, saloon-keepers in short, the whole range and gamut of active, subtle, political life.
"I've heard about it," said McKenty. "I guess the Government could take a hand in libraries and institutes and that sort of thing, too." "That's all right," replied the editor. "Might do some good. But you can't beat him at that game. It isn't his libraries and his clubs altogether or chiefly, it's himself and his work. He's a number one doctor, and night and day he's on the road.
Suddenly his face lighted. "Oh, I see," he said, shrewdly. "It's those tunnels you're thinking about. Are they in any shape to be used?" "They can be made over cheaper than new ones can be built." "True for you," replied McKenty, "and if they're in any sort of repair they'd be just what you'd want." He was emphatic, almost triumphant. "They belong to the city.
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