He said he would “just look on.”  And so, during the last and decisive day of the “whirlwind” campaign, while in Eighth Avenue voters were being challenged, beaten, and bribed, bonfires were burning, and “extras” were appearing every half hour, “Izzy” Schwab, the Tammany henchman, with a secret worth twenty thousand votes, sat a prisoner, in a wicker chair, with a drink and a cigar, guarded by four young men in flannels, who played tennis violently at five dollars a corner.

It was always a great day in the life of “Izzy” Schwab.  After a luncheon, which, as he later informed his friends, could not have cost less than “two dollars a plate and drink all you like,” Sam Forbes took him on at pool.  Mr. Schwab had learned the game in the cellars of Eighth Avenue at two and a half cents a cue, and now, even in Columbus Circle he was a star.  So, before the sun had set, Mr. Forbes, who at pool rather fancied himself, was seventy-five dollars poorer, and Mr. Schwab just that much to the good.  Then there followed a strange ceremony called tea, or, if you preferred it, whiskey and soda; and the tall footman bent before him with huge silver salvers laden down with flickering silver lamps, and bubbling soda bottles, and cigars, and cigarettes.

“You could have filled your pockets with twenty-five cent Havanas, and nobody would have said nothing!” declared Mr. Schwab, and his friends who never had enjoyed his chance to study at such close quarters the truly rich, nodded enviously.

At six o’clock Mr. Schwab led Winthrop into the big library and asked for his ticket of leave.

“They’ll be counting the votes soon,” he begged.  “I can’t do no harm now, and I don’t mean to.  I didn’t see nothing, and I won’t say nothing.  But it’s election night, and—­and I just got to be on Broadway.”

“Right,” said Winthrop, “I’ll have a car take you in, and if you will accept this small check——­”

“No!” roared “Izzy” Schwab.  Afterward he wondered how he came to do it.  “You’ve give me a good time, Mr. Winthrop.  You’ve treated me fine, all the gentlemen have treated me nice.  I’m not a blackmailer, Mr. Winthrop.”  Mr. Schwab’s voice shook slightly.

“Nonsense, Schwab, you didn’t let me finish,” said Winthrop, “I’m likely to need a lawyer any time; this is a retaining fee.  Suppose I exceed the speed limit—­I’m liable to do that——­”

“You bet you are!” exclaimed Mr. Schwab violently.

“Well, then, I’ll send for you, and there isn’t a police magistrate, nor any of the traffic squad, you can’t handle, is there?”

Mr. Schwab flushed with pleasure.

“You can count on me,” he vowed, “and your friends too, and the ladies,” he added gallantly.  “If ever the ladies want to get bail, tell ’em to telephone for `Izzy’ Schwab.  Of course,” he said reluctantly, “if it’s a retaining fee——­”

But when he read the face of the check he exclaimed in protest.  “But, Mr. Winthrop, this is more than the Journal would have give me!”