“_I kape a saloon on the corner, me boys,
An’ faith I’ve a flourishin’ trade,
I bought out me cousin, Nathaniel Doyle,
The money on whisky I made,
I could sell to youse now a nice pusse caffey,
Or a Rhino-Victoria cigar;
No slate, chalk or pencil is kept in the house,
Whin Malone’s at the back av the bar._”
HARRIGAN.
THE big gilt sign over Kelly’s saloon on Girard Avenue was all
a-glitter with morning sunlight; a crowd of hangers-on leaned against
the awning-frame, watching with admiration the ease with which a
powerful German, in a leather apron, lifted huge kegs in and out of a
brewer’s wagon.
Within, James Kelly stood behind the bar polishing thin glasses, and
frowning vexedly; a group of customers sat at a table drinking and
watching the deft fingers of Nobby Foley guide a pencil along a narrow
strip of paper.
“What are youse buyin’ to-day, Daily?” inquired Foley.
“I’m a sucker for buyin’ anyt’ing;” complained Daily. He wore
hob-nailed shoes and clothing covered with burnt spots which showed him
to be an iron-worker. He took some loose silver from his pocket and
selected a quarter. “Gimme that much,” said he, “o’ whatever ye t’ink’s
hot.”
“I’m buyin’ the police row meself,” said the policy-writer.
“That’ll do,” said Daily. “It’s just the same; like t’rowin’ good money
in the street.”
“Two’s a half?” inquired the other, glancing up.
“Not on yer life! If I strike the game I’ll hit it big, see? Good and
hard! No gittin’ the small end, tryin’ to save me play.”
“It’s your say. Whistle yer own piece, me boy, if youse t’ink it’ll do
ye any good.” The “writer” looked around at the array of half empty
glasses and added, “drink yer beer, gents; we’ll have another.”
Kelly glanced at the clock over the bar. His frown grew heavier; and
opening the door leading to the dwelling portion of the house, he cried:
“Is not Martin had breakfast yet.”
“I can’t swallow me feed whole,” came Martin’s voice angrily. “Shut up,
will youse!”
Kelly closed the door with a bang. “Damn the bit av good he is till
me,” growled he, recommencing upon the glasses.
“Beers, Kel,” called Foley. “What’s the matter, old boy. Youse look
mad.”
“Little wonder,” answered Kelly, drawing the beer and carrying it to
where his customers sat. “Here I have McQuirk an’ young Haley till meet
at the City Hall at noine be the day; it’s but a few minutes av it now,
an’ divil take the wan I have till tind bar.”
“I heerd,” said one of the men, addressing the policy man, “that
Levitsky’s place was pinched last night.”
“That’s right. He had some words with the lieutenant, and the loot sent
a wagon down there t’cut even, see? But, say, he’s out an’ wide open
for biz this mornin’, because McQuirk got him out as soon as he heard
about it. Youse can’t queer the push!”
O’Hara came in through a side door; his face wore a fat smile, as he
walked to the bar.
“Good mornin’, James,” saluted he.
“How are yez, Malachi?” returned the saloonkeeper, “is it yez mornin’s
mornin’ ye’d be after?”
“Divil a ilce! Give me a sup out av the brown bottle, an’ a troifle o’
porter on the soide.”
“I suppose,” remarked old Kelly as the drink was tossed off and rung up
on the cash register, “that ye’ll give me a lift at the primaries next
wake.”
“Sure, James, I’ll strive till be neighbourly; an’ if me vote’ll do yez
any good, faith, yez shall have it.”
“Ivery wan counts. I’m sure till be nominated, for the boss is wid me;
but we want all the votes we kin get in yez division, for the young
bla’gards are makin’ a foight agin me, I hear.”
“True for ye, boy! I wur talkin’ till young McGonagle yesterday, an’
it’s on the ticket he’ll be, agin ye, Kelly.”
“D’yez tell me so! Faix, he’s soured on me because I wouldn’t take me
milk from him, I think. But we’ll bate him, never fear. McQuirk an’
mesilf have bin among Murphy’s frinds an’ we’ll see till him, the
spalpeen. McQuirk have got the most av thim jobs, an’ they can’t go
back on him, faith!”
“Good luck till yez, sure. I hope yez’ll have as much av it as mesilf.”
“Ho! Ho! Faith an’ I thought yez wur in good timper this mornin’.
What’s happened to yez, O’Hara?”
“Nawthin’ till me, sure. Bud Rosie’s till marry young Murphy; an’ the
money’ll be a foine t’ing--for her.”
Kelly stared at him in dumb astonishment. O’Hara returned the look with
great good humour.
“Be the powers av Moll Kelly!” ejaculated the saloonkeeper, “but that
bates all, yet! An’ is it so soon after Mary’s berryin’?”
“Oh, they’ll wait a bit; it’s no hurry they’re in.”
The side door swung open, admitting Mrs. Nolan, in a greasy wrapper,
her face puffy with drink.
“Good mornin’ till yez gintlemen,” to the nodding, grinning group at
the table. “It’s takin’ Willie a-walkin’ I am, this foine mornin’.” As
she spoke, Mrs. Nolan flourished a kettle in the air and then banged
it down upon the bar. “Tin cints worth av mixed,” requested she.
Kelly jerked the can under the spigot with professional dexterity and
watched it, pondering.
“I’ll be goin’, James,” said O’Hara.
“Stop an’ have a sup on the house.”
“Another toime. Faith, me business’ed suffer from two drinks av yez
whisky.”
The second-hand man departed and Kelly slid the filled can along the
bar, the froth creaming down its sides.
“I’ve had a surprise, Mrs. Nolan,” said he.
“Small blame till yez, Kelly; arrah, it’s all the news yez hear as ye
stan’ behind yez bar, so yez do!”
“It will surprise ye, mam,” spoke Kelly solemnly. “Rosie O’Hara is till
take up wid Larry!”
“Is it marry him!”
“Divil a ilce! Her father is jist after tellin’ me av it.”
“Maybe she’s compelled till, faith!”
“Eh!”
“Faix, an’ the talk wint round about thim, long since, James. It’s
sorry I’d be iv it wur true.”
“God bless uz, Mrs. Nolan! An’ d’yez tell me this?”
“I’m not sayin’ it’s true, moind ye. An’ did yez not hear av it?”
“Sorra the word!”
“What will young Larkin do now, at all, at all. He wur woild after her
afore he wint away.”
“So he wur, Mrs. Nolan,” agreed Kelly, a change suddenly creeping into
his face; “so he wur, mam.”
“Glory be! What’ll he do whin he hears av this? He’s got the divil in
’im whin his timper’s up, so he have.”
“But he’s a frind av Larry’s.”
“It’s on’y worse that’ed make it.”
After Mrs. Nolan had gone, Kelly wiped the little puddles from the bar
and ruminated.
“He _have_ the divil in him,” muttered he. “Did I not see him, in
this barroom, knock the padding out av t’ree av’ the ‘Chain Gang’ for
callin’ his father an Orange bastard.”
The men at the table were shoving back their chairs as though about to
go.
“Foley,” said the saloonkeeper, “stop a bit an’ give an eye till the
bar; I want till spake till Martin. Call me iv any wan comes in.”
“All right,” said Foley. “On’y hurry up.”
Martin had a great, half raw beefsteak before him from which he was
hacking bleeding strips; a newspaper was propped against the salt cruet
and as he ate Martin read the doings of the sporting world.
“Arrah, don’t be botherin’ him!” cried Mrs. Kelly, as her husband
entered. “Lave him ate his bit av breakfast in pace. Will ye have
another cup av coffee, Martin?”
Martin pushed his cup toward her, over the stained table-cloth, in
silence; his father sat down and watched him as he split a bake-house
biscuit and covered it with butter, and then resumed his attack upon
the gory steak.
“I want till tell ye somethin’, Martin,” said the father. “No hurry for
Foley’s in the barroom.”
“Foley!” exclaimed Mrs. Kelly. Martin only stared.
“The cash register’ll ring if he meddles wid it,” grinned the
saloonkeeper. “Never fear av Foley.”
“Divil mend ye if yez are robbed av ivery God’s blissid cint ye have,
some day!” cried Mrs. Kelly, putting the steaming coffee before her
son. “I’ll go out till him. Sure, I wouldn’t trust that felly wid the
value av a glass av porter!”
She whisked hurriedly into the barroom, leaving father and son together.
“Good riddance,” said her husband--“yez mother talks too much at
toimes, Martin; an’ I want till spake till ye privately.”
“Gee!” exclaimed the son, surprised; “what’s the caper, eh?”
Kelly spoke for a long time leaning across the table; Martin listened,
his knife and fork constantly at work.
“Iv we knowed where Jimmie wur,” said Kelly, “we cud lave him know av
this dirty pace av wurk. Murphy is no frind av his’n nor moine aither!”
“Larkin’s easy found,” said Martin. “He’s got a match on at the Crib
Club in Boston for nixt Monday night, and he’s trainin’ at a road-house
just outside of the city. I kin git the address from somebody and
we’ll write him, eh?”
“We will, Martin! Go out an’ git a two cint stamp at Mullen’s drug
store an’ a sheet av paper, an’ an invelope, as soon as yez are done
atin’. It’s our juty till tell Larkin av this, an’ we must do it.”