“Not by the marines, Corkey.”

“I can lick the man who comes down on these docks to say I’m going to get the worst of it.”

Corkey is accordingly elected, and all hands take a drink at the other fellow’s invitation, for which the great Corkey demands the privilege of paying.  With this prologue the crowds start for the primaries.

“Lockwin, I expect you to stand straight up to the work to-day.  You went back on us a little through the week.  I know how sickness is, but my wife died while I was in charge of one campaign.  Politics is politics.  Stand to the work to-day.  Nothing’s the matter.  You’ve created a good feeling among the boys.  I’ve got to give the car company some more streets anyhow.  The residents are hot for facilities.  So don’t bother about their coming over.  They will be over about three o’clock.  Let Corkey have the precincts of the Second and Third.  If he comes further, a-repeating, you folks must fight.  He will vote the gamblers but they will put in vest-pocket tickets for you.  Understand?  Got all I said?  Give Corkey two wards—–­if he can get the sailors up.”

Such are the day’s injunctions of the political boss.  It is only a special election in one district.  It is practically settled already.  The boss has a thousand other matters of equal moment.

This is a day on which the prominent citizen stays out of politics.  The polling booths are built of stout timber in front of some saloon.  The line which is in possession votes all day.  Every vote counts one.

The sailors arrive and form in line before the various polls of the Second and Third wards.

A stranger—­a tenderfoot—­that is, a resident party man, entitled to vote—­takes his place in the line.

“What did you tell me I lied for?” asks a very tough politician.

“I didn’t tell you you lied.”

“I lie, do I?”

Several toughs seize the infuriated politician and hold him while the resident escapes.

These wards will be carried for Corkey.  In twice as many other precincts the situation is precisely the same, except that Harpwood and Lockwin, the recognized rivals, have the polls.

At three o’clock the wagons begin to unload, vote and reload.  A place is made at the head of the line for these “passengers.”

The “passenger” sailors vote at all of Corkey’s precincts.  They start for the other wards.

Now we may see the man Lockwin as commandant.  He has the police and the touching committees.  He is voting his own “passengers” by the thousands.

The sailors arrive in wagons.

“You can’t unload here!” says Lockwin.

The sailors unload.

Eight men seize a sailor and land him back in the wagon.

Corkey sits on the wagon in front.  He draws his revolver.

“Put up that gun!” cries Lockwin.

“Put up your pop, Corkey,” cry a half-dozen friendly toughs.