The mayor ran his fingers through his graying hair, and considered seriously.
"Romance," he reflected. Well, I ain't much on the talk out of books. But here's what I see when you say that word to me. It's the night before election, and I'm standing in the front window of the little room on Main Street where the boys can always find me. Down the street I hear the snarl and rumble of bands, and pretty soon I see the yellow flicker of torches, like the flicker of that candle, and the bobbing of banners. And then — the boys march by. All the boys! Pat Doherty, and Bob Larsen, and Matt Sanders — all the boys! And when they get to my window they wave their hats and cheer. Just a fat old man in that window, but they'll go to the pavement with any guy that knocks him. They're loyal. They're for me. And so they march by —— cheering and singing — all the boys — just for me to see and hear. Well — that — that's romance to me.
"Power," translated Mr. Magee.
"Yes, sir," cried the mayor. "I know I've got
