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, he was inducted into office; and there you were.

Now it wouldn’t have made so much difference what George W. Stener’s executive and financial qualifications for the position were, but at this time the city of Philadelphia was still hobbling along under perhaps as evil a financial system, or lack of it, as any city ever endured—­the assessor and the treasurer being allowed to collect and hold moneys belonging to the city, outside of the city’s private vaults, and that without any demand on the part of anybody that the same be invested by them at interest for the city’s benefit.  Rather, all they were expected to do, apparently, was to restore the principal and that which was with them when they entered or left office.  It was not understood or publicly demanded that the moneys so collected, or drawn from any source, be maintained intact in the vaults of the city treasury.  They could be loaned out, deposited in banks or used to further private interests of any one, so long as the principal was returned, and no one was the wiser.  Of course, this theory of finance was not publicly sanctioned, but it was known politically and journalistically, and in high finance.  How were you to stop it?