“_Oh! The room was decorated,
With the flags of every land,
The gents were elevated,
Malone he couldn’t stand;
Canaries in their cages,
With flowers in a tub,
Stood on the piano,
At Casey’s Social Club._”
POPULAR SONG.
BELLA NOLAN looked through the half glass door of Riley’s Oyster Café
and tapped softly upon the pane. Goose McGonagle stood before Riley’s
bar, fork in hand, while Riley, with amazing dexterity, wrenched open
oysters and placed them before him on the shell. At the sound of the
tapping, McGonagle looked up and Bella beckoned him.
“A mash?” smiled Riley.
“Ye’ve got another guess,” answered Goose. He laid down his fork and
stepped out upon the sidewalk.
“Goose,” asked the girl, “have you seen Mart Kelly to-night?”
“No; ain’t he up in the club?”
“I don’t know. Will you go up and see, please?”
“All right,” consented McGonagle. He opened the door, “Say Riley,” said
he, “just open the rest and have ’em on the bar. I’ll be back in a
second.”
“Don’t let on to nobody,” cautioned Bella. “Because I wouldn’t be
talked about for the world.”
The rooms of the Aurora Borealis Club were over Riley’s place of
business; the entrance was by a side door and a flight of steps led
directly into the parlour. The members were present in force, dressed
in their best and, as it was Saturday night, chinking their money in
their trousers’ pockets.
Larry Murphy and Roddy Ferguson in their shirt sleeves, were engaged in
a game of pool, discussing, between shots, the merits of the various
candidates for nomination at the coming ward convention. Mr. McCarty
sat at the piano endeavouring to pick out a ragtime melody which he
had heard at some “free and easy”; and Johnnie Kerrigan was critically
examining a portrait of McQuirk, the boss of the ward, a work of
art which the boss had lately presented to the club. Other and less
distinguished members lounged about the room, indulging in gossip of a
sporting character and strong cigars.
“I tell ye,” said Ferguson, slipping a ball into the rack, “O’Connor’s
got the t’ing cinched if he gets the delegates. He’ll win in a walk!”
Murphy chalked the tip of his cue and looked doubtful. “Gartenheim’s
dead agin him,” said he, “an’ Gartenheim kin scare up some votes, youse
know that. McQuirk’s pullin’ with Kelly this hitch, and he’ll wheel the
machine in line. I don’t t’ink O’Connor’ll do; if we want to have a say
we must ring in a man what kin hold the push together, see?”
“Dum-had, dah; doodle-day!” hummed McCarty, banging away at the
keyboard. “How’s that, Kerrigan?”
“Nothing like it,” answered Johnnie, “you’re getting worse every
minute.”
Tom Hogan, son of the policeman, came from an adjoining room.
“They’re makin’ up a game,” said he. “Any o’ youse gents want t’ sit
in?”
Murphy paused with his cue poised. “Not me,” remarked he. “Last
Saturday night was my finish; I don’t play no more poker with people
what deals from the bottom o’ the deck.”
McCarty stopped his piano practice and whirled about on the stool.
“This joint’s gittin’ to be a reg’lar hang-out for sharks,” complained
he. “We hold a meetin’ to-night, and if Kelly don’t git the razoo why I
git out o’ the club, that’s all.”
Young Kelly, unnoticed, had followed Hogan into the room.
“What’s that!” demanded he. “Speak yer piece, McCarty, don’t talk
behind me back.”
“Don’t worry; I’ll talk in front o’ yer face when the time comes.”
Martin struck the cushion of the pool table with his fist. “I want to
hear it right now; what are youse goin’ to put me before the meetin’
for?”
“Ah, yer crooked,” said McCarty.
“Me crooked! I can lick the guy that says it.”
Murphy leaned his cue against the wall. “Ye done me out o’ a five spot
by stackin’ the papers,” said he.
Kelly hesitated. Larry was one of the quietest men in the district;
but then he was also the man that the club had entered in the
tournament for amateurs a few years before and he had carried off the
light weight cup by beating three men in the finals.
“I ain’t scrappin’ with no professionals,” growled Martin at length.
“I ain’t no professional,” insinuated McCarty.
“Let it drop, gents!” advised Jerry McGlory who had just come in.
McGlory was the club’s president and he felt that in his office it
behoved him to act the part of a peacemaker. He took the wrathful Kelly
aside and was trying to soothe him when McGonagle entered upon his
errand.
“Somebody wants ye outside, Kelly,” announced Goose.
“Go ahead out an’ see ’em,” begged McGlory, delighted. “Ye’ll feel
better after ye come back.”
Muttering under his breath, Kelly followed McGonagle down the steps,
and after he had gone McGlory observed:
“That lobster’s too gay! He’s got a notion he runs this outfit.”
“Well, he’s got another t’ink,” said Murphy. “Say, us people made a
foxy play when we turned down the fifty dollars his old man wanted to
chip in toward gittin’ the pool table.”
“’Lection’s comin’,” remarked Ferguson. “He t’ought he’d cop our
support be that move.”
“He don’t git no support o’ mine,” Murphy informed them. “I ain’t for
no gent that pulls on both ends o’ the string. Le’me tell youse this,”
rapping with his knuckles upon the piano top; “if Kelly scoops the
nomination we’re a push o’ dead ones.”
“He’s puttin’ his net out though,” affirmed Roddy Ferguson. “O’Connor
told me that he’s got the ward committee fixed, an’ that the heelers’ll
pull for him at the primaries.”
“He’s got all the bums in the ward on his staff,” said McGlory. “He
gits ’em out o’ jail when they’re pinched, an’ he’s loadin’ rum into
them all day, over his bar.”
“The Mozart Sangerbund give him an invitation to their last meetin’,”
put in McCarty, “and he wanted Kerrigan to write him a speech. He’s
makin’ a play for the German vote.”
“I heard in City Hall, yesterday,” said Kerrigan, “that the Mayor
offered him the indorsement of the other side again, if he could split
our ticket. McQuirk was at the pow-wow and somebody slipped him a bunch
of money. But say! if that’s right he’ll have a warm time delivering
the goods.”
“When is the delegate election, Murphy?” inquired McGlory.
“About a month after our ball,” answered Larry.
“Talkin’ about the ball,” remarked McCarty: “we won’t have Larkin to
lead the march for us this time, eh?”
“There’s a guy what knows the figures,” commented McGlory. “How’s he
doin’ now?”
“He’s doin’ ’em all; an’ right off the reel too,” said Murphy, who was
a pupil of Jimmie’s in the manly art, and had watched his progress,
through the newspapers, with interest. “He’s done stunts wit’ the best
o’ them, since he left town, and they kin hardly put a glove on him.
He knocked the Pohoket Cyclone dead to the world in the second minute
o’ the fifth round last Monday night at New Orleans. Larkin’s a comer,
le’me tell youse.”
McGlory had pulled aside one of the window blinds and was gazing down
into the street.
“Say!” exclaimed he suddenly, “it’s a bundle o’ skirts what sent
McGonagle up after Kelly.” He regarded the two figures standing near
the curb below under the glare of the gas light, intently. “It looks,”
said he, “like Nolan’s sister.”
“Cheese it!” whispered Murphy. But Roddy Ferguson had caught the words;
and he stood with his elbow resting on the piano top, chewing at the
end of his cigar, and looking with clouded brow into the fire. It was
an open secret that Bella had thrown him over for Martin Kelly; Roddy
was too quiet and steady to suit her light temperament, he lacked
Martin’s swagger and bluster, qualities which Bella liked, for she
was one of those women who mistake excess for a proof of spirit and
dissolute living for a mark of manhood.
Martin had found Bella waiting for him in front of Riley’s. His anger
had not had time to cool, and he demanded roughly:
“Well, what d’youse want?”
“I’d like to speak to you Martin,” timidly.
“Say, don’t youse begin to dog me up, d’ye hear! I won’t have it!”
“You didn’t meet me last night at Whalen’s dance like ye said ye would,
and I thought somethin’ might be the matter.”
“Nothin’s the matter only I’m ’lectioneering for the old man, an’ I
ain’t got no time to meet women.”
“S-h-h! Mart Kelly, I don’t thank you one bit for talkin’ to me like
that! Anybody to hear ye would think I was common.”
He looked at her for a moment, and then laughed:
“Oh, I guess not,” said he.
“Well, don’t do it no more! I don’t want people talkin’ about me and
giving me a shamed face. Ye know, yourself, they’d on’y be too ready.
Oh, my Gawd,” suddenly, “here comes Mom!”
Mrs. Nolan, a market basket upon her arm, came down the street with
staggering step. Dick had entrusted her with money enough to go
marketing and it had gone for drink; she was muttering to herself and
gesticulating drunkenly, and as she caught sight of the pair by the
curb, she halted:
“Ah!” cried she. “Is it spharkin’ be the gutter yez’ed be doin’,
jewels? Have ye no home till go till, Bella, that yez must stan’ on the
strate!”
“Oh, go home!” cried Bella, scarlet with shame, “everybody’s lookin’ at
you!”
“Divil a hair do I care. Sure, an’ haven’t I the roight till take a
sup av drink iv I have the price? It’s not long yez father ’ud be in
biz’ness,” she added to Martin, “iv it wurn’t for the loikes av me.”
The young man growled out an oath. He saw McGonagle looking at him
through Riley’s window, and Riley, himself, with a grin upon his face.
A Saturday night crowd filled Second Street; many that knew him stopped
and looked and laughed; on the opposite corner, in front of Kerrigan’s
saloon and under the glare of an arc lamp, a crowd of loungers were
enjoying the sight; Officer Hogan was slyly pointing at him with his
club, and saying something to the bartender who stood in the doorway.
“And is me poor home not good enough for yez,” went on Mrs. Nolan with
increased pitch, “that yez do be kapin’ me daughter stan’in’ in the
strate till be talked about. Divil a better had yez father till he
tuk to sellin’ the drop. Lave go av me arm Bella; I’ll go home whin I
plaze!”
“Ye’ll go home now!” said her son, pushing his way through the crowd
which had collected. “For God’s sake,” as she began struggling, “don’t
make a show of yourself! T’ink of the neighbours!”
“May the divil fly away wid the neighbours! What call have I till be
afeerd av thim?”
“Come on, Mom,” urged Bella, almost in tears, “if ye go on this way,
I’ll never show me face outside the door again!”
“Ye promised to do right,” said Dick, with white face, “and ye’ll never
get another cent o’ my money in yer hands as long as ye live!”
Kelly had darted into Riley’s; and the tittering, thoughtless crowd was
growing greater.
“Is this the way yez talks till yez owld mother!” cried Mrs. Nolan.
“May the cross av Christ darken the day yez wur born.”
A man laughed loudly: Dick turned with a snarl, caught him by the
throat with one hand, the other drawn back for a blow. Bella screamed
and Hogan ran across the street.
“Don’t hit him,” shouted the policeman; “don’t hit him, Dick!” He
dragged the angry, shame-maddened youth away from his victim. “I don’t
want to pull yez,” said he, “for I know just how it is. Go along home,
now and take yez mother wid ye.”
The mother, frightened by her son’s sudden exhibition of fury submitted
to being led away. And an hour afterward she was deep in a drunken
sleep on a narrow settee in her kitchen. Bella sat upon the steps
leading to the room above, and her brother was walking the floor, his
head throbbing and a sickening feeling at his heart.
“It’s a bad t’ing to say,” said he suddenly, “but sometimes I wisht she
was in her grave.”
“Dick!” cried his sister, frightened.
“I know! I know!” waving his hand impatiently, “yer goin’ to say that
it ain’t right; an’ I know that as well as you.” He paced up and down
in silence for a moment. “Look at what I could do for her,” he resumed,
“if she’d on’y do what was right. I make big money, and I’d a-bought a
house out o’ the Building Association long ago if it hadn’t been for
that”--with a gesture toward the sleeping form. “She could live like a
lady--like a lady! And I’d only ask her to do right.”
He took a clay pipe from the shelf over the door and struck a match
upon the stove.
“How often has she promised to break it off?” demanded he staring at
the flickering flame. “A hundred times if she’s done it once.” Here
the match sputtered and went out, and he threw the pipe angrily from
him, smashing it to fragments upon the floor. “It was jist like that,
though,” he said. “She broke ’em all! She’ll do anyt’ing to get rum.
Look at last week when I was invited to Gartenheim’s sister’s weddin’!
When I got home from work I hadn’t a rag to put on me back; she’d
lifted ’em, and soaked ’em all at Rosenbaum’s hock shop.”
And bitterly he went over the long list of drink-inspired acts that had
made his life so hard to live, and with a sense of despair he looked
at the poor bare room, and contrasted it with the comfortable home
that he could have supported had all been right. The thought came,
too, of Gartenheim’s bright snug home, of the gas-lit parlour on the
Sunday night when last he had been there, of the boss’s flaxen-haired
niece, and of how she had sung the “Holy City” for him in deep, rich,
contralto voice. Then came darker thoughts, and he sat down staring
vacantly into the fire. Bella watched him in silence, listening to the
tick of the little nickel clock, and petulantly frowning at the bother
of it all.
“I think I’ll go to bed,” she said, at last. She opened the stair door
and was about to ascend when she felt her brother’s hand upon her
shoulder.
“I oughtn’t to say this maybe,” said he, slowly, “but if yer mother
can’t tell ye--why I must. I hope yer a good girl Bella; but I see
youse with Mart Kelly often, and a girl can’t hold her head up long if
she sticks to sich people as him. Break it off! Break it off, I tell
ye, for he’s no good.”
He looked steadily into her frightened face for a moment and then
turned away.
“Good night,” said he.
He heard the clock strike every hour through the long night, but still
he sat there struggling under the weight of his cross.