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commonplaces --the small change of newspaper and street and business gossip. People liked
him in his own neighborhood. He was thought to be honest and kindly; and he was, as far as he
knew. His wife and four children were as average and insignificant as the wives and children of
such men usually are.
Just the same, and in spite of, or perhaps, politically speaking, because of all this, George W.
Stener was brought into temporary public notice by certain political methods which had existed
in Philadelphia practically unmodified for the previous half hundred years. First, because he was
of the same political faith as the dominant local political party, he had become known to the
local councilman and ward-leader of his ward as a faithful soul--one useful in the matter of
drumming up votes. And next--although absolutely without value as a speaker, for he had no
ideas--you could send him from door to door, asking the grocer and the blacksmith and the
butcher how he felt about things and he would make friends, and in the long run predict fairly
accurately the probable vote. Furthermore, you could dole him out a few platitudes and he
would repeat them. The Republican party, which was the new-born party then, but dominant in
Philadelphia, needed your vote; it was necessary to keep the rascally Democrats out--he could
scarcely have said why. They had been for slavery. They were for free trade. It never once
occurred to him that these things had nothing to do with the local executive and financial
administration of Philadelphia. Supposing they didn't? What of it?
In Philadelphia at this time a certain United States Senator, one Mark Simpson, together with
Edward Malia Butler and Henry A. Mollenhauer, a rich coal dealer and investor, were supposed
to, and did, control jointly the political destiny of the city. They had representatives, benchmen,
spies, tools--a great company. Among them was this same Stener--a minute cog in the silent
machinery of their affairs.
In scarcely any other city save this, where the inhabitants were of a deadly average in so far as
being commonplace was concerned, could such a man as Stener have been elected city
treasurer. The rank and file did not, except in rare instances, make up their political program. An
inside ring had this matter in charge. Certain positions were allotted to such and such men or to
such and such factions of the party for such and such services rendered --but who does not
know politics?
In due course of time, therefore, George W. Stener had become persona grata to Edward
Strobik, a quondam councilman who afterward became ward leader and still later president of
council, and who, in private life was a stone-dealer and owner of a brickyard. Strobik was a
benchman of Henry A. Mollenhauer, the hardest and coldest of all three of the political leaders.
The latter had things to get from council, and Strobik was his tool. He had Stener elected; and
because he was faithful in voting as he was told the latter was later made an assistant
superintendent of the highways department.
Here he came under the eyes of Edward Malia Butler, and was slightly useful to him. Then the
central political committee, with Butler in charge, decided that some nice, docile man who would
at the same time be absolutely faithful was needed for city treasurer, and Stener was put on the
ticket. He knew little of finance, but was an excellent bookkeeper; and, anyhow, was not
corporation counsel Regan, another political tool of this great triumvirate, there to advise him at
all times? He was. It was a very simple matter. Being put on the ticket was equivalent to being
elected, and so, after a few weeks of exceedingly trying platform experiences, in which he had
stammered through platitudinous declarations that the city needed to be honestly administered,
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