But the sudden message from Master that day, when the whole exhibition had already been hung, had driven Theodore into a fury. Nor had the arrival of his patron at the gallery to argue his case made matters any better. Quite the contrary.

“Think of it,” Frank cried enthusiastically. “Put the three together on one wall. Boss Tweed on the left, Thomas Nast on the right, and that shot you took of the city courthouse just below them. Or above, if you prefer,” he added obligingly.

“But the work isn’t interesting,” Theodore expostulated. The three photographs, from the thousands in his collection, were perfectly adequate, but nothing more.

“Theodore,” said Frank Master as patiently as if he were addressing a child, “Boss Tweed was arrested today.”

If Tammany Hall knew how to make money out of New York City, it had to be said that Boss Tweed had taken the gentle art of the padded contract to heights never dreamed of before. It wasn’t that he did anything complicated. Together with Sweeny the Park Commissioner, Connolly the Controller and Mayor Oakey Hall, he formed a ring for the awarding of city contracts. But where in the past a contract worth ten thousand dollars might have had a thousand or two added, the ring, since they controlled everything, felt free to do much better. For more than a decade now, the amount on a contract might be multiplied five, ten, even a hundred times. The contractor was then paid, with a large bonus on top, and the huge remaining amount split between the ring.

His noblest enterprise had been the courthouse, behind City Hall. It had been under construction for ten years now, with no end in sight. When eventually it was completed, there was no doubt that it would be one of the noblest buildings in the city—a regular palace, in the best neoclassical style. But the ring was in no hurry to finish it, since this splendid architectural receptacle was also a trough of liquid gold. Everyone benefited—at least, all the ring’s many friends. Modest craftsmen with contracts for work there had already emerged from it as rich men. No one knew how many millions had flowed into this one building, but this was certain: the courthouse had already cost more than the recent purchase of Alaska.

Yet it hadn’t been until two years ago that the press had attacked the ring in any serious way. But when it did come, the attack was two-pronged: from the New York Times, in words; and from the brilliant cartoons of Thomas Nast, in Harper’s Weekly.

It was Thomas Nast’s cartoons that Boss Tweed feared the more. His constituents mightn’t be able to read, he said, but they could understand the cartoons. He even tried to buy Nast off with half a million dollars. But it hadn’t worked. And now, finally, Boss Tweed had been arrested.