“_He’d strop up his razor, graceful an’ nice,
An’ then from your face he’d carve off a slice.
Your life from the gallows! Ye couldn’t be vexed,
When Tecumsha O’Riley’s calling out ‘next.’_”
COMIC SONG.
SCHWARTZ’S barber shop stood almost within the shadow of the church
tower. The gas light streamed through his plate window and across the
sidewalk; a row of customers lined up along the wall, waiting their
turn in the chair; the fat proprietor stropped a razor and conversed
with a short man who stood at the stove rubbing a freshly reaped chin.
A large aired man, with a dyed moustache, was pulling a pair of kid
gloves over hands too large for them. He wore a light overcoat, a silk
hat, a flower in his buttonhole and seemed to sweat importance. This
was Squire Moran, thrice elected to the minor judiciary and a power in
the ward.
“Ach!” exclaimed Schwartz, “dot vas too pad, Misder Purns.”
“It’s gittin’ a bit wurried I am,” said the little man; “for what kin a
body be doin’ wit’out a bit av wurk.”
“Sure I t’ought, Squire,” said Clancy, the grocer, who lay back in the
barber’s chair, tucked about with towels, “that yez wur goin’ till give
Tim a job in the water daypartment.”
“There’s many a slip, Clancy,” quoth his honour, struggling with the
gloves. “I’m not the only duck in the pond, ye know; and it’s Tim’s own
fault that he ain’t in the department long ago.”
“How’s that?” queried the grocer.
“McQuirk’s against him,” answered Moran.
Mr. Burns looked downhearted; the others nodded sagaciously as though
the reason given was all sufficient.
“I almost got down on my knees to him,” went on the magistrate, “but he
said no; so what can I do?”
“What’s he sore on Tim for?” asked Goose McGonagle who, in a bright
scarlet tie, sat near the wash-stand.
“I wouldn’t vote for O’Connor,” Burns hastened to say. “Sure Gartenheim
did me a favour wanst; an’ wud yez have me go back on a friend?”
A murmur went around the room.
“But O’Connor was the reg’lar nominee,” argued Moran, “an’ if it hadn’t
been for the push that turned in for Gartenheim, O’Connor ’ud be
holdin’ down the office instead of Kelly. McQuirk’s dead leary on split
tickets--unless he gives the order--an’ he told ye at the time that
he’d remember ye for it.”
“He had little till do,” mumbled Clancy.
Moran laughed. “What the boss don’t know about practical politics ain’t
worth knowin’,” said he. “An’ it’s the little things what holds the
party in line. So stick to McQuirk an’ McQuirk’ll stick to you.” He had
succeeded with his gloves by this time and was about to depart. “If I
can do anything for you, Tim,” he added, “I’ll do it. But when Mac says
no, why he generally means it. Good night, everybody.”
“Niver talk till me av politicians,” said Clancy; “be dad they’re all
tarred wid wan stick. An’ divil a better are they across the say; sure,
I wur radin’ in the _Irish World_ that Redmond do be at his tricks
wanst more.”
“D’yez say so,” exclaimed Burns; “ah, but the owld dart is in a bad way
betune thim all.”
“Redmond do be after firin’ off some illigant spaches,” put in Malachi
O’Hara, from behind a newspaper, “an’ he’s an able lad, so he is.
Didn’t he take up for Parnell whin--”
“Parnell!” Clancy snorted his disgust so violently as to endanger his
safety from the barber’s razor. “Don’t talk till me av that felly.”
“Yez wur a Parnell man yezself wanst, Clancy,” said Burns, with an
elaborate wink at the others. “Sure, I see the chromo av him that came
with the _Freeman’s Journal_ nailed up on yez wall overight the kitchen
dure.”
“An’ divil a long it stayed out av the stove after he wur found out,”
said the grocer stoutly.
“Filled up, Schwartz?” cried Jerry McGlory, poking his head in at the
doorway.
“Gome in, Mr. McGlory; dere’s nod many aheat of you.”
Jerry entered, greeted his acquaintances, and hung up his coat.
“Goin’ to the wake?” asked he of O’Hara.
“’Twuld be but daysint fer me till pay my rayspects till the family.
Are yez goin’ yezself?”
“Sure! There’ll be a mob there, though.” Then turning to the youth in
the scarlet tie he inquired: “Well, what d’ye know, McGonagle?”
Mr. McGonagle had just finished a graphic description, for the benefit
of his right-hand neighbour, of the last performance of a “brass back”
cock, the victorious veteran of a score of mains, and answered affably:
“Nothin’ much. On’y the selectman’s the sorest mug ye ever put yer
lamps on. If ye’d touch him wit’ a wet finger, he’d sizzle.”
“Arrah, yer right, Goose,” confirmed Burns. “I stopped intill his place
for a sup av drink as I wur comin’ by, an’ from the talk av him yez’d
t’ink young Murphy had put his hand intill his money drawer.”
“Divil mend him!” said Clancy.
“I heard,” said McGlory, “that Mary Carroll wasn’t left a cent.”
“D’ye tell me so?” O’Hara was greatly interested.
“Glory be!” ejaculated Burns; “an’ the nace so good till him.”
“Sure, Mary wurn’t his nace,” said Clancy.
“Wur she not! Faix an’ that’s news till me, so it is.”
“I heard me father say,” said Jerry, “that Mary’s grandfather put up
the coin to bring old man Murphy over here, and start him in the tea
biz. That was a good many moons ago; and when her folks lost all their
gilt and she was left alone, old Larry sent to Dublin for her, and he’s
took care o’ her ever since.”
“Begorra, the owld fox had a heart in his body for all! Bud scure
till the wan av me iver give him credit for it. God save uz,” resumed
Mr. Burns, after a pause, “what a power av money he made at the tay
peddlin’.”
“He uster be a great old geezer, didn’t he?” remarked McGonagle. “I kin
remember him as plain as day in his old plug hat, an’ he wuz hot after
the needful, too.”
“There do be a good profit in tay,” put in the grocer, who was now
sitting up, having his hair brushed; “but how he iver made all av the
property he’s left, be peddlin’ it from dure till dure, gits the better
av me.”
“He had a head for commerce, sure,” put in O’Hara. “It wur himself
that cud lay out a dollar till advantage; an’ divil the bate av him did
iver I see for buyin’ chape an’ sellin’ dear.”
“He was a winner if he cud beat youse at that game, O’Hara,” laughed
McGlory.
“Nexd!” cried Schwartz, as Clancy got out of his chair. Malachi took
the vacated place, a frown wrinkling his brow. The grocer, thinking of
the hard bargain which O’Hara had driven when he had gone to him for
money, some time before, winked at Jerry, delighting in the cut; and
Schwartz, as he drew some hot water from the copper tank upon the stove
into O’Hara’s shaving mug, grinned widely.
“Dod vas a good von, Cherry,” muttered he. “You hid him hardt, ain’t
id?”
Burns, who was gazing through the window, suddenly uttered an
exclamation, rushed into the street and buttonholed a young man who was
passing.
“Is that not Dick Nolan, Jerry?” asked Clancy tieing his four-in-hand
before the mirror over the wash-stand.
“Yes,” answered Jerry. “I guess Tim’s hittin’ him for a job.”
“Be the powers! the crayture nades the bit av wurk. The good woife an’
two childer’ mus’ find it hard; an’ Tim’s a study, sober felly.”
In a few minutes Tim returned; his face had a brighter look and he was
lilting an old country air.
“I go till wurk in the mornin’,” said he with a rapturous smile. “Young
Nolan is a man av his wurd; he promised me a job at the first chance,
an’ now he have give me wan. McQuirk an’ his political bums kin go till
the devil, for me!”
“Good luck, lad,” wished the grocer. “Gartenheim is the man for yez
till stick till.”
“He have the contract for layin’ the sewer above, at Frankford,” went
on Burns; “an’ he’ll start till open the strate t’morry.”
“Nolan’s a good guy,” commented Jerry.
“That’s no joke,” agreed McGonagle. “He’s a real good t’ing.”
“It’s a pity,” commented Clancy, “that his mother is so tuck up wid the
sup av drink.”
“Ay!” said Tim, shaking his head dismally.
“She hocks everyt’ing she kin carry,” said McGonagle. “Dick can’t trust
her wit’ a cent.”
“Small blame till him,” said Clancy; “she’d git drink wid it. He comes
in an’ pays me bill every Saturday noight himself, poor b’y.”
“Makes big money, too,” remarked McGonagle; “and she cud live like a
lady if she’d cut the bottle. It’s hard lines for Dick, le’me tell
youse; for he’s a hard worker, an’ he’s got mighty big notions ’bout
gittin’ to the top o’ the heap.”
“That sister o’ his is a nice-lookin’ fairy,” said McGonagle.
“Poody as a bicture,” agreed Schwartz. O’Hara gave a grunt; the barber
snatched away his blade and inquired, “Does der razor hurd?”
“Yez damned near cut me chin!” growled the dealer in second-hand goods.
“Shut up, an’ tind till yez wurk.”
“She’s a nice girl enough,” said Jerry, “but, say, she’s cert’ny
playin’ Roddy Ferguson for a dead one.”
“An’ is Roddy shparkin’ her, sure?” inquired Clancy.
“Sure! I never seen anybody so broke up on a bundle o’ skirts in me
life. Say, he’s dead twisted about her; he talks about her every time
he opens his mouth.”
“Roddy’s a study b’y,” said Burns. “I heerd that O’Connor’ll be takin’
him intill the bizness wan av these days. It’s a good man he’d make
her.”
“Dick’s leary on him,” said McGonagle, “he won’t let her even look at
him.”
“D’yez say so!” And Clancy regarded the speaker with great surprise.
“Faith an’ I t’ought they wur great buddies. They wint till the
Brothers’ School together, an’ in thim days, divil a long they wur iver
apart.”
“Why it’s a chestnut!” exclaimed McGonagle. “I t’ought everybody in the
ward was next to that. They’ve bin given each other the stony smile
ever since las’ election, when O’Connor and Gartenheim run against each
other for select council.”
“Ach!” cried Schwartz, “dot vas a hod dime!”
“The warmest ever,” agreed McGonagle. “It was a reg’lar drag out or I
never seen one.”
“Wur they not both Dimmycrats?” asked Tim. “What call had they till
foight, I dunno? I wur in the division at the toime, sure, bud I niver
got the roight av the t’ing.”
“Why, when the gang went to the convention they was split an’ primed
for trouble, see? One crowd wanted O’Connor, an’ the other was
a-fracturin’ their suspenders whoopin’ t’ings up for Gartenheim. And
when the O’Connor push got the bulge, the Dutchman’s people broke
for the door, and started a convention o’ their own upstairs o’
Swinghammer’s saloon. Both o’ ’em was in the fight from that on, and
the way they shovelled out the long green ’ed make youse t’ink they was
rank suckers. Why a mug couldn’t turn aroun’ wit’out runnin’ into a
bunch o’ money.”
“Glory be!”
“Nolan worked for Gartenheim, of course; he couldn’t turn down his
own boss, ye know. An’ Ferguson ’lectioneered for O’Connor for the
same reason, see? An’ he chased aroun’ the ward waggin’ his face for
votes an’ givin’ Gartenheim the knife every chance he got. On election
night,” continued McGonagle, proudly, “we had the returns at the club
by private wire, ye know, and when Roddy was dead sure that Kelly had
flim-flammed the push, he opened up on Nolan an’ said that Gartenheim
had been workin’ wit’ the other side, all along. In a minute they was
clinched an’ the crowd had to pull ’em apart. That’s how it is.”
“But, Goose,” complained Tim, “I don’t see how Kelly, who calls himself
a Dimmycrat, got on the Raypublican ticket.”
“He was foxy,” returned Goose; “I ain’t stuck on him, but I’ll say that
for him--he’s dead foxy. As soon as he seen his own party split he made
a play for a place on the other ticket; the other side knowed that he
cud lift a lot o’ votes from us, and that they cud win wit’ him, see?
McQuirk got onto the game an’ tried to make a deal. But they gave him
the laugh, and wiped up the ward wit’ him on ’lection day, wit’ Kelly
at the head o’ their column. The boss was red hot, le’me tell youse: I
heerd him in Kerrigan’s back room the next afternoon, and he said he’d
be at Kelly’s finish if it took every cent he had in his clothes.”
“Next chendt!” called Schwartz. O’Hara got out of the chair, and
McGonagle took his place.
“It was all blow, though,” added Goose as Schwartz swathed him in
clean towels and began to apply the lather. “He’s got over his spasm,
an’ they’re both as t’ick as t’ives. Say,” to the barber, “keep that
soap on the outside o’ me face, will youse!”
“Den keep your face shud, aind’t it,” smiled Schwartz.
Clancy and Burns were about to leave.
“We’ll see yez at the wake, Jerry,” said the former. “Will ye go along
wid us, Malachi?”
“I have till go to the length av Coogan’s till see a stove that they do
be waitin’ me till buy,” answered O’Hara, “but I’ll folly right after
yez.”
“Good night, gentlemen.” And the door closed behind Mr. Burns and Mr.
Clancy, who headed in the direction of Murphy’s Court.