Page:McClure's Magazine volume 10.djvu/556

'sure,' says I, 'it wudn't stop the paving going on; there's the rist of the gang.'"

"It is a question of—of boodle, isn't it?" a youngish man in a black alpaca coat and white tie struck in, using a certain hesitation over the word. He did not live on the street. He was the new Methodist minister, dining that night with a member of his church.

"What else?" demanded O'Brien in a caustic tone. "The min that furnishes the brick, they know how much they pay to git it introduced, they and a few of the aldermin. And the other aldermin—well, they want to oblige their frinds, don't they; and ain't they got min they want jobs for? There's manny more ways of trading than wid money. So they set the ball a-rolling—talking about the work it will make for the laboring people—as if macadam was like trees and growed, and only brick kept men a-working! And if the property owners protist, well, they're juist kicking: there's no public convanience that don't cause some private hardship; and talk loike that, giving it out it's the rich man pays the tax and the poor man gits the work; but I've sixty years in a wicked world, and I niver seen, nor I niver expect to see, the tax thot the poor man don't pay the biggist part of ut. It ain't the lazy, drinking chaps thot pay, but the dacint, harrd-workin' man thot's scrimped and saved and got a bit of land and a little shelter for himsilf—he catches it ivery wind thot blows. And it's him catching it wid the brick pavemint. I know a widdy woman, mesilf, up me own way, thot they've filled the strate up above her till she's down in the hole wid the drippings, an' she do have to climb up in her attic to see the waggins go by. They've taxed her three hunderd, and she's got to morgige her place for it. I know thot. And I know a man, 'tis Kit Tiernan—some of yous may know him; he was in the expriss business for forty years, and he's retired on his savings. He's got two houses on Park Strate, where they was paving last year. He'd to pay twilve hunderd dollars on thim two houses; they ain't worth thirty-five hunderd——"

"I can give you something worse than that even," said a mellow, deep voice. The man who spoke was tall and of a full habit. He had a gray chin beard and a delicate mouth. He was a banker of the town, a man of good fortune and great generosity.

"I can give you worse than that," said he; "this taxing by frontage instead of by value or extent or anything else but frontage makes an awful mess. There's John McKim, who owns an obtuse triangle down on Front Street. Whole property isn't worth two thousand—taxes for payment tot up to something over four thousand; and supreme

It is a question of— of boodle, isn't it?"