“They have,” assented Perkins.  “They have indeed.  You remember that man Jorrigan?”

“The striker?” queried Mrs. Perkins, calling to mind a burly combination of red hair and bad manners who had made himself very conspicuous of late.

“Precisely.  That’s just the point,” retorted Perkins.  “The striker.  That’s what he is, and it’s what you call him.”

“But you said he was a striker at breakfast last Wednesday,” said Mrs. Perkins.  “We simply take your word for it.”

“I know I did.  He’s also a balance of power, my dear.  Jorrigan controls the Eighth Ward.  That’s the only reason I’ve let him in the house,” said Thaddeus.

“You’ve been very chummy with him, I must say,” sniffed Mrs. Perkins.

“Well, I’ve had to be,” said the candidate.  “That man is a power, and he knows it.”

“What’s his business?” asked Mrs. Perkins.

“Interference between capital and labor,” replied Perkins.  “So I’ve cultivated him.”

“He never struck me as being a very cultivated person,” smiled Mrs. Perkins.  “He has a suggestion of alcohol about him that is very oppressive.”

“I know—­he has a very intoxicating presence,” said the candidate, joining in the smile.  “But we are rid of his presence now and forever, thanks to Bobbie.  I got the news last night.  He and his followers have declared for Haskins, in spite of all his promises to me, and we can attribute our personal good fortune and our political loss to Bobbie.  Bobbie met him on the street the other day.”

“I know he did,” said Mrs. Perkins.  “He told me so, and he said that the horrid man wanted to kiss him.”

“It’s true,” said Perkins.  “He did, and Bobbie wouldn’t let him.”

“Well, a man isn’t going back on you because he can’t kiss your whole family, is he?” asked Mrs. Perkins, apprehensively.  “If that’s the situation, I shall go to New York to-morrow.”

Perkins laughed heartily.  “No, my dear,” he said.  “You are safe enough from that.  But Jorrigan, when Bobbie refused, said, ’Well, young feller, I guess you don’t know who I am?’ ‘Yes, I do,’ said Bobbie.  ’You are Mr. Jorrigan,’ and Jorrigan was overjoyed; but Bobbie destroyed his good work by adding, ‘Jorrigan the striker,’ and the striker’s joy vanished.  ‘Who told you that?’ said he.  ‘Pop—­and he knows,’ said Bobbie.  That night,” continued Perkins, with a droll expression of mingled mirth and annoyance, “the amalgamated mortar-mixers of the Eighth Ward decided that consideration for the country’s welfare should rise above partisan politics, and that when it came to real statesmanship Haskins could give me points.  A ward wiped out in a night, and another highly interesting, very thirsty balance of power gone over to the other side.”

“I should think you’d give up, then,” said Mrs. Perkins, despairfully.  She wanted her husband to win—­not because she had any ambition to shine as “Lady-Mayor,” but because she did not wish Thaddeus to incur disappointment or undergo the chagrin of a public rebuke.  “You seem to be losing balances of power right and left.”