“Oh, you’ll find out soon enough,” he assured me.

“But Mr. Barbour’s president of the Railroad.”

“Sure.  Once in a while they take something up to him, but as a rule he leaves things to Gorse.”

Whereupon I resolved to have a good look at Mr. Gorse at the first opportunity.  One day Mr. Watling sent out for some papers.

“He’s in there now;” said Larry.  “You take ’em.”

“In there” meant Mr. Watling’s sanctum.  And in there he was.  I had only a glance at the great man, for, with a kindly but preoccupied “Thank you, Hugh,” Mr. Watling took the papers and dismissed me.  Heaviness, blackness and impassivity,—­these were the impressions of Mr. Gorse which I carried away from that first meeting.  The very solidity of his flesh seemed to suggest the solidity of his position.  Such, say the psychologists, is the effect of prestige.

I remember well an old-fashioned picture puzzle in one of my boyhood books.  The scene depicted was to all appearances a sylvan, peaceful one, with two happy lovers seated on a log beside a brook; but presently, as one gazed at the picture, the head of an animal stood forth among the branches, and then the body; more animals began to appear, bit by bit; a tiger, a bear, a lion, a jackal, a fox, until at last, whenever I looked at the page, I did not see the sylvan scene at all, but only the predatory beasts of the forest.  So, one by one, the figures of the real rulers of the city superimposed themselves for me upon the simple and democratic design of Mayor, Council, Board of Aldermen, Police Force, etc., that filled the eye of a naive and trusting electorate which fondly imagined that it had something to say in government.  Miller Gorse was one of these rulers behind the screen, and Adolf Scherer, of the Boyne Iron Works, another; there was Leonard Dickinson of the Corn National Bank; Frederick Grierson, becoming wealthy in city real estate; Judah B. Tallant, who, though outlawed socially, was deferred to as the owner of the Morning Era; and even Ralph Hambleton, rapidly superseding the elderly and conservative Mr. Lord, who had hitherto managed the great Hambleton estate.  Ralph seemed to have become, in a somewhat gnostic manner, a full-fledged financier.  Not having studied law, he had been home for four years when I became a legal fledgling, and during the early days of my apprenticeship I was beholden to him for many “eye openers” concerning the conduct of great affairs.  I remember him sauntering into my room one morning when Larry Weed had gone out on an errand.

“Hello, Hughie,” he said, with his air of having nothing to do.  “Grinding it out?  Where’s Watling?”

“Isn’t he in his office?”

“No.”

“Well, what can we do for you?” I asked.

Ralph grinned.

“Perhaps I’ll tell you when you’re a little older.  You’re too young.”  And he sank down into Larry Weed’s chair, his long legs protruding on the other side of the table.  “It’s a matter of taxes.  Some time ago I found out that Dickinson and Tallant and others I could mention were paying a good deal less on their city property than we are.  We don’t propose to do it any more—­that’s all.”