CHAPTER EIGHT: The Great Fight for Clean Government.
"As to the government of this city," said Mr.Newberry, leaning back in a leather armchair at the Mausoleum Club and lighting a second cigar, "it's rotten, that's all." "Absolutely rotten," assented Mr.Dick Overend, ringing the bell for a second whiskey and soda.
"Corrupt," said Mr.Newberry, between two puffs of his cigar.
"Full of graft," said Mr.Overend, flicking his ashes into the grate.
"Crooked aldermen," said Mr.Newberry.
"A bum city solicitor," said Mr.Overend, "and an infernal grafter for treasurer." "Yes," assented Mr.Newberry, and then, leaning forwards in his chair and looking carefully about the corridors of the club, he spoke behind his hand and said, "And the mayor's the biggest grafter of the lot.

And what's more," he added, sinking his voice to a whisper, "the time has come to speak out about it fearlessly." Mr.Overend nodded.

"It's a tyranny," he said.
"Worse than Russia," rejoined Mr.Newberry.
* * * * * They had been sitting in a quiet corner of the club--it was on a Sunday evening--and had fallen into talking, first of all, of the present rottenness of the federal politics of the United States--not argumentatively or with any heat, but with the reflective sadness that steals over an elderly man when he sits in the leather armchair of a comfortable club smoking a good cigar and musing on the decadence of the present day.

The rottenness of the federal government didn't anger them.

It merely grieved them.
They could remember--both of them--how different everything was when they were young men just entering on life.