Gazing through the little blue haze of his cigar smoke, he began to have vague ideas, ideas of advancement, of political successes.

Politics fascinated him--such a field of action seemed to be the domain for which he was precisely suited--not the politics of the city or of the state; not the nasty little squabbling of boodlers, lobbyists, and supervisors, but something large, something inspiring, something on a tremendous scale, something to which one could give up one's whole life and energy, something to which one could sacrifice everything--friendships, fortunes, scruples, principles, life itself, no matter what, anything to be a "success," to "arrive," to "get there," to attain the desired object in spite of the whole world, to ride on at it, trampling down or smashing through everything that stood in the way, blind, deaf, fists and teeth shut tight.

Not the little squabbling politics of the city or state, but national politics, the sway and government of a whole people, the House, the Senate, the cabinet and the next--why not ?--the highest, the best of all, the Executive.

Yes, Geary aspired even to the Presidency.
For a moment he allowed himself the indulgence of the delightful dream, then laughed a bit at his own absurdity.

But even the entertainment of so vast an idea had made his mind, as it were, big; it was hard to come down to the level again.