“_Come all ye sons of Erin an’ listen to my lay,
An’ I’ll tell the story av the wise man av Galway,
A credit to his country--a credit to his name,
Three provinces a-ringin’ wid the echoes av his fame._”
AN OLD COME-ALL-YE.
THERE were but few at the six o’clock service, and these were so
scattered about the church as to create the impression of vacancy.
The priest, glittering in gold-embroidered vestments intoned the mass
at the high altar; the acolytes drowsily made the responses; the
worshippers followed the sacrifice with devout attention; a restless
child now and then broke the silence that pervaded.
A light stole through a long, stained window, throwing shafts of
crimson and purple radiance across the side altar, where stood a carven
image of the Holy Virgin. A girl knelt at the altar rail, her head
bowed, her hands clasped. Even the black-robed sisters, who taught in
the parochial school, now and then raised their eyes to look at her,
for she was so white, her attitude was so supplicating.
Larry Murphy who was very regular at church since Mary died, often
glanced up from his book to look at the pleading figure; but he did not
recognize her, he was too far off, or the light was too dim. It was
Rosie O’Hara.
With all her pure young heart Rosie was pleading for her love. Right or
wrong she had been taught to carry her griefs to her who had been born
into the world to crush the serpent’s head; and with an intensity for
which her mind could find no words, she prayed mutely.
The gleaming, richly-wrought vessels had been taken from the tabernacle
and stood upon the pure white altar cloth; the good father bent his
knee, and every head sank in adoration. Rosie, awed to the very soul at
the proximity of the unveiled host, found words--the words of the angel:
“Hail Mary, full of grace,” she breathed, “blessed art thou among
women; and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.”
At intervals the bell continued to ring softly, the people beat their
breasts; all bent before the uplifted host, save the child, who looked
on, open-eyed, wondering.
“Holy Mary, mother of God,” pleaded the girl. “Pray for us sinners, now
and at the hour of our death!”
When the services were ended, Rosie lingered until the priest had left
the altar and the people had gone. Upon her way out she paused. In a
far corner, where the light scarcely fell, hung a pale, white Christ
upon a cross; she knelt and pressed her lips to the wounded feet, her
eyes bright with tears, and then she passed out through the great
swinging doors.
Larry had been one of the first to leave the church; Jimmie Larkin, who
was standing upon Kerrigan’s corner, saw him, instantly crossed the
street and advanced to meet him.
“Larkin!” young Murphy’s voice showed his surprise; and he held out his
hand in a hearty, full-blooded fashion. But Jimmie stuffed his hands
into his pockets, and stared at him, with a sneer.
“Ain’t youse forgot somethin’?” asked he.
Larry looked his astonishment: “What’s hurtin’ ye?” he demanded.
“Ye know well enough! I’ve bin put next to the cross game yer workin’,
Murphy; I’m dead on, I tell ye, and I’m rotten sorry! I trusted ye, I
did; I trusted youse like I would me brother.”
“Say, what’s the matter with youse, Larkin? Don’t stand there like a
stuffed shirt! Put me on to the trouble. What are youse jumpin’ me for?”
“Ah! Don’t try that; it won’t work. I ain’t sore because I got the
dinky-dink, but on’y because youse had a hand in it! You was me pal,
wasn’t youse? Didn’t I usta sleep with youse? And didn’t we eat
together? I borried yer coin when I was strapped, and lent youse mine
when I had any. You knowed all about how it was with me and her,
ye knowed it and done me dirt when me back was turned. That’s the
part what hurts, an I’ve broke trainin’ to come here and lick youse,
Murphy--to lick youse till ye beg!”
Larry drew back, frowning into the other’s flushed face.
“I don’t know what ye mean,” said he, sharply. “Youse’re a friend o’
mine, Larkin, and I’ll stand for all kinds o’ talk from ye, but, say,
if ye go t’rowin’ any punches my way, I’ll try to give ye a run for yer
trouble.”
It was then that Rosie came out of the church. She saw, with frightened
eyes, the angry and threatening gestures, and caught the high, sharp
tones of their voices. She hurried forward, her heart palpitating,
realizing at once the cause of the quarrel.
“Oh, Jimmie,” she exclaimed. “Have you got back home!”
“Oh, yes,” said he mockingly: “I’ve come back. I just wanted to see
Larry, that’s all.”
“Don’t ask Larry about it,” she pleaded, eagerly. “He don’t know a
thing. Let’s walk down toward McTurpin’s, and I’ll tell you--”
Larkin laughed and interrupted her. “Gee!” exclaimed he, “is it that
bad, eh? Is he a-goin’ to hide behind yer skirts?”
“I ain’t a-goin to hide, and I ain’t got no reason to hide,” stormed
Murphy. “Come on, whatever it is! We’ll settle this right here.”
“Don’t fight,” said Rosie, frightened more than ever. “Look you’re
a-most in front of the church. Honest to God, Larry, I couldn’t help
it! Me father got it around: He told everybody.”
“Eh! Told what?”
“Why, you know that, what Mary said; you ain’t forgot about that? When
she was dyin’, I mean.”
“Oh! No! But what’s he gotta do with that? That’s what I want to know;
where’s his kick a-comin?”
“Me and him was engaged, ye know, an’ Pop made me write to him that me
and you--”
“No!” Murphy fairly gasped as he caught her meaning. “Say, did youse do
that?”
Rosie began to choke and sob.
“Oh, Larry, I couldn’t help it; they frightened me so; and I was
willing to do anything.”
Larkin was looking from one to the other, puzzled, glowering and
suspicious. Murphy turned to him.
“You’re right,” said he. “If ye t’ought I was doin’ that, I don’t blame
youse for wantin’ to start t’ings my way. But, say, we kin fix this up
to suit. Les’ go in here,” nodding to the open iron gate that led to
the little burial ground behind the church. “We kin talk all we want
and nobody’ll hear us.”
They walked about the tiny inclosure where lay the parish dead, under
the rank tufts of grass and the weather-beaten stones; and there they
told Jimmie of Mary’s request, and Rosie narrated the story of her
father’s crafty handling of her to break one promise and keep the other.
Young Larkin drew his breath, slowly, after all had been said, and then
expelled it with great force. He held out his hand to Larry.
“It’s up to me,” said he. “I might a-knowed, old pal; but youse know
how it is.”
“It’s all right,” said Murphy, shaking his hand; “on’y ye might
a-looked at it that way before ye jumped me. But let it go at that,
it’s all to the good now.”
“But the promise,” said Rosie. “That’ll always be there; I can’t break
it; I’d be frightened to.”
“Gee!” cried Larkin, impatiently. “Don’t mind that; Mary was outa
her head, see? And the old ones was a-workin’ youse; they was after
Murphy’s money, see?”
But the fear was implanted too deeply in her breast to be moved by
this. Larry understood and pondered the matter, while Jimmie argued
and Rosie sobbed.
“Why, it’s easy,” said he, suddenly. “You needn’t break your promise,
Rosie, if youse’re afraid.”
The others looked at him, hopefully.
“It was you what promised,” said Larry. “I didn’t say a word, see? I’ll
lay down! I won’t marry youse; and if I won’t, how kin youse go ahead,
eh? It lets youse out! That’s what it does--it lets youse out!”
The simplicity of this made Larkin stare, and caused Rosie hopefully to
dry her eyes. Larry was vociferously triumphant; he saw all made clear,
and was as happy as he desired them to be.
“I’ll go round and bruise up yer father,” said he. “I’ll talk to him
like a Dutch uncle, I will. Him and the two old ones’ll play light on
the ghost game when I get through. They’ll see it ain’t no use. Take a
walk with Jimmie, Rosie; don’t go home till youse t’ink I’ve left. I’ll
make it right, all right!”
But this was not the only incident of the morning. Annie Clancy stood
in the door of the grocery store; and as Goose McGonagle came along
he naturally stopped for a chat. The voice of Clancy could be heard
grumbling from the interior.
“What’s the matter with yer father?” asked Goose.
“Don’t talk too loud,” warned Annie, with uplifted finger, “he might
hear ye. He’s been in an awful temper ever since his half sister, old
Miss Cassidy, died. They say she left her money to the Church. He
thought he’d git it, and then he’d be able to pay--you know what.”
The milkman nodded.
“I ought to,” answered he, “I can’t t’ink o’ the mess I’m in meself
without t’inkin’ o’ that. But his temper don’t cut no ice with me,
Annie, I’m goin’ to talk to him to-day if I git t’run down or not.”
“Annie!” called Clancy, angrily. “Sure, what keeps yez glosterin’ be
the dure? Come in at wanst, an’ tind till yez bit av wurk.”
“He knows I’m here,” smiled Goose.
“I must go in,” whispered Annie, “good-by.”
Goose started up the street upon his round, muttering:
“Clancy ain’t so many, if he does run a grocery store. Annie’s willin’
to call it a go, an’ I don’t see--Gee! Here comes O’Hara.”
The second-hand dealer had just come out of his shop; he wore his
narrow-rimmed high hat and carried his thick black-thorn cane.
“Good mornin’ till yez, McGonagle,” saluted he.
“How are youse?” responded Goose.
“I have no rayson till complain,” said O’Hara. Then he tapped his stick
once or twice upon the pavement, and cleared his throat. “McGonagle,”
said he, “yez will be after havin’ the troifle av money that’s due me
nixt week?”
“Why, say, O’Hara, t’tell youse the trut’ I don’t see how I kin git it.
Bizness is so rotten bad, ye know.”
“What’s that? Bad luck till ye, McGonagle, what talk have yez?”
“Don’t git hot! Youse heard me speak me piece, didn’t ye? Well, that’s
jist what I mean. An’ I can’t stand chewin’ it with youse all day,
O’Hara; me customers’ll be waitin’ for their milk. So long.”
And with this he hurried off while O’Hara gazed angrily after him for
a moment, then started off toward Clancy’s.
“The bla’gard!” muttered O’Hara. “The thafe av the world till keep a
daysint man out av his bit av money!”
He entered Clancy’s and found the grocer alone, seated astride a crate,
sorting eggs.
“The top av the mornin’ till yez, Clancy,” said O’Hara, politely.
“The same till yezsilf,” responded Clancy. “Sure, an’ it’s glad till
see yez I am, this foine mornin’.” Then under his breath he added: “God
forgi’me for the lie I’m tellin’.”
“I’ve jist luked in till ask if yez have the troifle av money that’s
due me,” said O’Hara.
“I have not the price av a can av beer in the house. Faix an’ I’ve jist
paid me butter man who shud have had his money last Chuesday, an’ it’s
claned out I am, entirely.”
“An’ might I ax yez, Mister Clancy, what’s till become av me?”
“Scure till the wan av me knows. Can’t ye extind the time?”
“Divil raysave the day!” And O’Hara turned abruptly toward the door.
“Mister Clancy, I will have me money, principal an’ intrust, or I will
sell yez out!” He paused upon the threshold. “Iv ye are not at me store
t’morry at twelve be the day, I will have Haggerty, the constable, down
on yez. Mister Clancy, good day till yez, sir!” And he slammed the door
behind him.
“An’ the divil go wid ye,” exclaimed Clancy, savagely, as he resumed
his work upon the crate of eggs.
“Ain’t ye goin’ to church this mornin’, Pop?” called Annie, from an
inner room.
“Faith an’ I am,” answered her father, rising hurriedly, and slipping
off his apron. “It’s bad luck enough I’m havin’ widout missin’ me juty.
What time is it, asthore?”
“It wants on’y a few minutes.”
Clancy put on his coat. “It wur a black day,” he muttered, as he
started off, “when I borryed that money av Malachi O’Hara. The owld
villyan’ll keep his word, bad luck till him; it’s in a trench wid a
pick I’ll be, afore the week’s out.”
After leaving Rosie and Larkin, Larry Murphy headed straight for
O’Hara’s; but he had scarce gone a half block when he encountered
Kerrigan and Mason, who had just paused before Owen Dwyer’s door. Mason
grasped the young man’s hand and shook it warmly.
“I am delighted that you have made such a splendid fight against
McQuirk,” said he.
“It ain’t McQuirk, so much,” said Larry. “Kelly’s the man I’m after.”
“We’re just going in to see Owen Dwyer, about the delegates for his
division,” said Kerrigan. “Won’t you come in? He’ll want to see you, I
know.”
Owen had seen the trio from the window and had opened the door in time
to catch these words.
“Come in, Larry,” said he cordially. “It’s a stranger ye’ve made av
yezsilf long enough.”
Owen had asked him to visit them many times before, but Larry had never
done so because of the fear that Maggie would think he was forcing
himself upon her, and this his pride would not permit. He was reluctant
to enter even now, but somehow there was also a feeling of gladness in
his being unable to refuse.
He sat upon the edge of the chair that Owen offered him, stole covert
glances about the parlour and earnestly hoped that Maggie was not at
home. A glance at the clock showed him that it was but shortly after
eight, and he wonderingly confessed to a sense of satisfaction in the
knowledge that school did not begin until nine. Owen settled his doubts
by poking his head through the hangings of a doorway, and calling:
“Maggie, asthore; can ye come here for a minyute? Sure, it’s company
we’re after havin’ so airly in the mornin’.”
Maggie entered the room, obediently; she flushed a little at sight of
Larry, but managed to greet him in a calm, even voice that betrayed
nothing of what she might feel.
She talked to him of neighbourhood events, he answering awkwardly and
distantly, as he always did with her. Her father had plunged into an
earnest discussion, with the others, of the coming convention, and
finally swept them out of the room to look at some figures which he
had compiled, bearing upon the comparative strength of the opposing
factions.
There was a short silence after this; and, at length Maggie said:
“I have wanted so to speak to you lately, but you are such a stranger!”
A little thrill ran through Larry at these words. She had thought of
_him_, then; and he fancied that he caught a note of vexation in her
voice. He pondered this, confusedly, and did not reply. She continued:
“I wanted to tell you how sorry I was at your great loss. Mary was a
sweet and good girl.”
“That’s right,” said he, eagerly. “There ain’t many like her, is there?”
“No!” answered Maggie, gently.
“She was too good for me,” said he, soberly.
Though Maggie did not agree with him in this, she did not say so. And
this is why: She had been a constant visitor during Mary’s illness,
and the sorrow that had grown so upon the sick girl toward the end had
not escaped her. Little by little she grasped the causes of this and
realized why Larry had asked Mary to be his wife. She had laboured
strenuously to persuade the gentle girl that love alone had been his
motive, but without success. Though she had loved Larry from the
days of her girlhood--and this Maggie had confessed to herself long
before--still her heart was great enough to appreciate what he had
endeavoured to do; and all the more because it proved him to be as
noble as she had always believed him.
“I also wanted to thank you,” said Maggie, “for what you did last
night. Daddy has a great deal of money--for him, you know--invested in
the City Railway Company’s stock, and the loss of his savings, now that
he is old, would be bitter enough.”
This was news to Larry and it startled him. The proposed steal of the
Motor Traction Company had had very little to do with the fight he and
his friends had made. As he had informed Mason, Kelly’s defeat was his
object and so long as he accomplished this he had cared little for
anything else.
But Kelly and his hate of Kelly suddenly shrunk into insignificance,
and the Traction Company began to loom up dragon-like with Maggie as
its prospective victim.
“I didn’t know that yer father stood to lose anyt’ing,” said he.
Maggie’s face fell; she had thought that perhaps he had made the fight
partly for her sake. He saw the change in her countenance and hastened
to add: “He’ll come out all right, though; McGlory’s against that job
they’re tryin’ t’work.”
“And do you think Mr. McGlory will secure the nomination?”
“Sure. They’ve worked a couple o’ ringers on us, but we’ll win out in
spite o’ them.”
The others re-entered the room at this point.
“The thing is as plain as day,” said Kerrigan. “There were only three
votes in the past session that held them down; the figures show that
they have defeated two of these, and if this is the case and Kelly is
not beaten, they have a majority of one.”
“An’ that,” said Owen, “is as good as a hundred till do their darty
wurk.”
“Is it that close?” asked Larry. “Gee! we’ll have to hustle.”
“They will seat these men, Daily and Levitsky, in the convention, by
hook or by crook,” remarked Kerrigan. “And in that case they will have
a majority of two.”
“But the two-thirds rule,” Mason interrupted. “They must have
two-thirds of the delegates to nominate.”
“The bunch with the most tallies always wins out,” said Larry. “If they
show a lead in the runnin’, enough’ll flop over to make good for them.”
After a time Larry and Kerrigan arose to go, while Mason remained to
talk with Owen.
“Don’t forget, Mason,” said Kerrigan, “that I’ll want to see you
to-morrow about old Miss Cassidy’s will.”
“God help uz all”; said Owen. “All av the owld neighbours is dyin’ off.
She wur a kind body, too, wur Miss Cassidy, for all she wur an owld
maid.”
Maggie opened the door for the two young men as they departed. She
smiled as she said:
“You must come again, Larry,” and then as an after-thought, “And you
too, Mr. Kerrigan.”
Kerrigan looked at Murphy quizzically, as they walked down the street.
“You’re ace high there, Larry.”
“Oh, cut it out,” said Larry, impatiently. But he was glad to hear it
said, nevertheless.
Goose McGonagle had covered his route quickly that morning and by the
time service was finished in the church and the thin stream of people
began to flow into the street, he was standing on the step of Regan’s
cigar store anxiously awaiting Clancy.
The grocer had stopped to discuss the primaries upon the sidewalk in
front of the church, and some little time elapsed before he arrived at
the point where Goose was awaiting him.
“Hello, Clancy,” saluted the latter, cordially. “How’s t’ings?” But
without pausing for a reply he took the elder man by the sleeve and
led him out to the curb. “Say,” inquired he, “have youse noticed that
I’ve been hangin’ around your place a good bit in the last two or t’ree
mont’s?”
“I have,” answered Clancy, bracing himself stiffly.
“Then I guess youse’re onto the reason.”
The grocer’s looks were not encouraging and Goose began to waver. But
he pulled himself together, and blurted out. “Say, do youse mind if me
and Annie gits Father Dawson to tie the knot?”
“Is it yezsilf would take Annie till Father Dawson?”
“Sure.”
“Well, the divil himself niver witnessed sich a cheek. An’ might I ax
what yez have till kape a wife on?”
“Why, I ain’t got much dough,” admitted Goose, ruefully. “But there’s
me milk route and--”
“Arrah, go long wid ye! There’s a dale av money in the milk business,
Goose, me b’y, bud yez route’ll niver make ye rich. An’ as for Annie,
she’ll stay at home, an’ help her mother wid the wurk, as she hav
always done. Now don’t be after vexin’ me!” Goose was about to protest;
“’twill do ye no good.”
And the grocer went on his way down the street leaving the young man
gazing despondently after him. He did not notice the approach of Larry
and Kerrigan who had just emerged from Dwyer’s; and Larry slapped him
on the back, remarking:
“Yer lookin’ green around the gills. What’s wrong?”
“I’m gittin’ it in the neck, all around,” answered Goose, savagely.
“They’re all givin’ me the dinky-dink for further orders. I just now
went against Annie’s old man, and he flagged me, cold!”
“Oh, was that Clancy you were speaking to?” asked Kerrigan looking
interestedly after the retreating figure. “I’ve got something to tell
him, but I’ll see him again. Say, you knew old Miss Cassidy, Annie’s
aunt, didn’t you, Goose?”
“Sure,” answered the milkman. “She was me star customer, up till she
died the other day.”
“Well, she left a queer kind of a will.” Kerrigan hesitated a moment,
and then continued: “Say, I know how it is between you and Annie; walk
down the street with us and I’ll tell you about it. It might help you
somehow.”
As they went along, Kerrigan, with a wealth of technical phrases,
explained the peculiarities of the document. A great part of the
explanation was Greek to McGonagle; but Larry grasped the points of the
matter, and by the time Kerrigan had finished, his face was lighted
with suppressed excitement. They paused before the door of the Aurora
Borealis Club in the midst of a rapid debate between the two latter
gentlemen; finally Larry said:
“Then youse’ll keep it quiet for a while?”
“Only until to-morrow afternoon,” said Kerrigan, decisively. “You’ll
have to work quick.”
After the attorney left them, Goose turned to his friend, and inquired
bewilderingly:
“Say, Murphy, put me next, will youse. What kind o’ a graft have youse
got? Hit it out, quick!”
Larry leaned against the frame of Riley’s show window and laughed
exultantly; McGonagle frowned vexedly at his mirth, snapping his
fingers with impatience.
“Say!” exclaimed the latter, as Larry continued to laugh, “youse must
be crazy. What’s the matter, anyhow?”
Larry smothered his laughing, and took Goose rapturously by the lapel
of his coat, proceeding to put into words the idea which he had
conceived while Kerrigan was speaking. When he had finished, Goose tore
himself away and executed a mad acrobatic dance about the sidewalk, and
wound it up by throwing his arms about Larry and hugging him until his
ribs cracked.
“It’s the slickest t’ing I ever run against,” declared he, with
enthusiasm. “I always said you was foxy, Murphy; and if youse work this
right, ye kin take the front seat, and I’ll never say a word!”
After a few moments’ consultation they separated and Larry made his way
toward O’Hara’s. The freight engines, as usual, were coughing up and
down the tracks, hissing and straining at their trailing loads. O’Hara
was repairing the fire brick in an old stove outside; his sleeves were
turned up and he was soot to the elbows.
“I want to talk to youse,” said Larry, as he paused.
“Yez are an early caller!” exclaimed O’Hara, delightedly. “But, faith,”
poking him in the ribs, “I t’ought yez’ed called long afore this, b’y.
She’s a smart slip av a girl, Larry.”
He led the young man through the store and back into the kitchen. The
sisters sprang up tumultuously.
“Larry, asthore,” piped Ellen, “sure an’ it’s a glad heart I have this
day. Glory be! bud yez are fitted for wan another. Sit down; she’ll be
here this minyute; she do be only gone as far as the church.”
“I seen her,” said Larry. “I was talkin’ to her.”
Bridget shrieked with mirth. “Lave the young wans alone!” cried she.
“They’ll see each other, niver fear. Arrah, avic, it’s the great b’y
yez are.”
“She told me,” went on Larry, “all about it.”
“About how foolish she wur?” questioned O’Hara. “She’s seen it, have
she. Bud, niver fear b’y, niver fear.”
“It wasn’t Rosie what was foolish, O’Hara, it was youse. Didn’t ye see
that there was two ends to this t’ing. Ye scared her, and then t’ought
youse was all to the good, didn’t ye? But yer out o’ line: ye can’t
play me; I won’t have it.”
“What talk have ye, Larry?”
“Ah, ye know damn well what I mean! Youse t’ink yer a hot guy, O’Hara,
but ye’ll buy a gold brick some day, le’me tell youse that. Ye’ll go
flat on yer back wit’out a cent in yer pants.”
“Divil take ye, have yez gone crazy!”
“I’m tellin’ ye what’s right, ain’t I?”
“Shame on ye, Larry Murphy!” exclaimed Bridget, “is poor Mary’s dyin’
words--”
“Say, cut that out! I won’t’ stand for any o’ youse draggin’ _her_ into
yer little game.”
“God forgi’ yez!” cried Ellen. “Oh, God forgi’ yez.”
O’Hara strove to look impressive. “Iv any wan had towld me,” said he,
“that yez had no rayspect for Mary, I would’ve towld him that he lied!”
Larry laughed. “That’s a slashin’ good jolly,” remarked he. “It might
have worked, too; on’y I’m next to yer little scheme,” he paused a
moment, regarding O’Hara, soberly. “Say,” he resumed “I didn’t come to
see youse on’y about that, but to do youse a good turn if ye’ll on’y
let me.”
“What have ye till say?” inquired O’Hara.
“Come into the store,” said Larry, with a glance at the two old women.
“This t’ing’s private.”
They re-entered the store. O’Hara closed the door, while Larry seated
himself upon the end of the counter.
“Clancy,” began the latter, “owes youse money.”
“He do,” admitted O’Hara. “Six hundred dollars, an’ ’tis due the day.”
“What d’youse t’ink his grocery’ed bring if ye sold him out?”
“About half av it, bad scram till him,” said O’Hara, viciously.
“McGonagle owes youse somethin’, too, don’t he?”
“Yis; I loaned him enough till buy his milk route, a year since, an’
divil the cint do I iver expect till see av it again!”
Larry crossed one leg over the other, and clasped his hands comfortably
about his knee.
“I kin put youse next to a way to collect every cent, interest and
all,” he informed O’Hara.
The second-hand dealer’s eyes snapped with interest. But he said,
doubtfully:
“How can yez do that? Sure, nayther av thim have a cint till bless
thimselves wid!”
Larry leaned forward and began to explain away the other’s doubts. He
talked straight to the point and in a few moments O’Hara brightened up
wonderfully.
“I’ll see Clancy at wanst!” exclaimed he.
“But there’s somethin’ else,” said Larry. “There’s Rosie and Larkin;
what about them?”
“Arrah, what have they till do wid it?”
“Just as much as the others. Youse’re got to say ‘yes’ to them or
you’ll slip yer trolley.”
“Hell till yez sowl!” cried O’Hara. “Is it a girl av mine marry that
dirty Derry spawn av the divil!”
“Keep yer shirt on,” advised Larry, evenly. “Don’t make any wild
swings. Money’s money, O’Hara; and ye must make good or youse don’t see
a dollar.”
O’Hara spluttered with rapidly evaporating wrath; and at length he
cooled down sufficiently to say:
“Yez are in the Church yezsilf, Larry; an’ ye know that the clargy do
be down on mixed marriages.”
“Say,” said Larry, getting down from the counter and buttoning up his
coat, “youse might as well git yer money back by doin’ what I ask ye
to do. Rosie’s twenty-one, and she’ll marry Larkin some o’ these days,
anyhow. Speak quick; is it yes or no; I’ve got to see the delegates
afore the convention opens.”
O’Hara hesitated for a moment; then he burst out.
“I’ll not lose me bit av hard arned money till save the trollop! Iv she
wants till make her bed so, why lave her lie in it, an’ divil do her
good wid it!”