“_He stood for Dooley, and for Dooley cast his vote,
I stood for Conroy, as did Hooly,
There was Fagan and O’Ragan, Flannigan and Hagan,
All bound to kick the pants off Michael Dooley._”
BALLADS OF BACK STREETS.
IN the parlour of the Precinct Club, McQuirk was just concluding an
interview with the political manager and lobbyist of the Motor Traction
Company.
“McGlory,” said the lobbyist, “mus’n’t think he’s too big a fish. Some
other people that I know of will give the administration as good a
rake-off, and be glad of the chance.” He got upon his feet, as their
conference was over and shook McQuirk encouragingly by the hand. “Just
send for him, and talk things over. Alex’s got good sense; he’ll see
the point.”
“I don’t think he’d come,” said McQuirk, “so I’ll go over and see
_him_.”
“All right,” said the other, “do as you think best. And, say, how’s
Conlin doing with the vote in his division?”
McQuirk compressed his lips. “Bad,” returned he. “They separated him
from it, clean.”
“I think,” mused the other, “that Conlin’s too short for the police
force. The examining board’s mighty strict just now, Mac.”
The ward boss grinned. “He won’t like it much,” said he. “It’s funny,”
he went on, humorously, “how much better tall men are at gittin’ out
the vote than short ones.”
The other laughed. “You’re right, Mac,” said he; “but let me say this,
again, before I go: Whatever you do, don’t have a fight in your ward.
Go into your convention and find the man that’s goin’ to win--and stand
good with him _if we can handle him_. The administration wants lots of
friends next session.”
McQuirk found McGlory, dressed in his best, at the stables in Murphy’s
Court, superintending the doctoring of a worn-looking horse. The
contractor’s greeting was stiff and formal.
“Anyone got your proxy, Alex?” asked the boss, after they had exchanged
some general remarks.
“I’ll go till the convintion mesilf,” answered McGlory. “There do be
too damn much of this proxy business.”
McQuirk brushed a fly or two from a raw saddle gall on the horse’s
back, and reflected.
“I understand,” he said finally, “that you’re out for the nomination.”
“The young fellys want someone till stan’ for it, an’ sure I’m willin’
till try an’ bate Kelly. I don’t forget what he done last illection,
an’ at the time, McQuirk, yez said yezself that he played ye a bla’gard
trick, an’ that yez’ed git even.”
“Oh, hell!” McQuirk waved his hand, deprecatingly. “It don’t do to hold
grudges, Alex; Kelly’s a good fellow.”
“He’s not good enough for me.”
“You’re makin’ a mistake,” said the boss.
The horse stretched his stiff old limbs in the sunlight at the stable
door; McQuirk whistled softly; a couple of dirty children from across
the narrow court stared at him, curiously.
“Say,” said the boss at length, “when’s your contract out, Alex?”
“It have a few mont’s yet till go.”
“Think you’ll get it again?”
McGlory stiffened up and bent his brows at him.
“I have hopes av it,” said he, soberly.
“Well, don’t be foolish. Things happen, sometimes, you know.”
“Look here, Tom McQuirk, is it threatenin’ me yez are?”
“I never threaten anybody, I _do_ things, you know that.”
“Ye threatened Kelly, an’ ye done nawthin’.”
“That’s all right. You’re not inside, Alex; ye don’t know everything.
Now think the thing over, as ye go down to the hall; and take my
advice--keep your eye on your bread and butter! That’s all.”
The crowd on Girard Avenue had been waiting for over an hour for
some sign of a stir, when a sudden blare of brass instruments and a
thundering drubbing of drums broke forth, and into the avenue wheeled
the Emmet Band, Eddie Brennen at its head, splendid in a scarlet coat
and towering shako, his drum-major’s staff whirling about his head
like a metallic circle. Hogan, the policeman, darted into the street
with uplifted club, to hold back the teams from the cross streets. The
throng ranged quickly along the curb; from the adjacent alleys poured
a horde of whooping children; draymen pulled up their nags in order
to watch the passing cohorts. Everyone knew that the gathering of the
clans had begun.
It was the anti-Kelly faction, and they swung along behind the drums
like veterans. Those of them who were to sit in the convention wore
huge scarlet badges upon their breasts. Larry Murphy, in all the glory
of a high silk hat, borrowed from one of McGrath’s hack drivers,
marched at the head of the column, and his aids, Nolan and Ferguson,
were immediately behind him.
“Be me soul!” ejaculated the grocer, “bud young Brennen kin twirl his
bit av a stick, so he kin. An’ luk at the walk av Murphy; sure yez’ed
t’ink he had a mortgage on the City Hall!”
“It puts me in mind,” remarked Tim Burns; “av the owld days whin we
stepped till the music oursilves, Clancy, on Paddy’s day, beyant on
Broad Street.”
“True for ye, Tim, an’ we wid the axes on the shoulders av uz, an’ the
bokays, an’ the strings av doughnuts till ate on the march. Faith an’
the young fellys know nawthin’ av the harp an’ the sunburst; an’ it’s
withered in the hearts av most av the owld wans too, I’m thinkin’. God
luk down on uz! Till think av all the talk there wur av the owld land,
then, an’ the little we hear av it now. Divil a green flag d’yez see
hangin’ out av the windys on the siventeenth av March; an’ the Land
League do be forgotten. The owld blood’s growin’ thin, Tim--thin as
water!”
About the doors of the convention hall, the same hall where the Aurora
Borealis Club had held their ball, the scene was one of extreme
animation. The groups of high-hatted, tobacco-chewing men, seemed
possessed by demons of movement and noise. They laughed with the full
strength of their chests, waved their arms wildly and swore joyously,
with the unconscious finish of experts. Kelly and his henchmen had
already arrived; he had been greeted as a hero by his own faction and
now stood in the hallway surrounded by a solid circle of supporters.
Gratten Haley who had been named for school director the night before
in a convention held in a back kitchen on Second Street, approached
Owen Dwyer.
“Has McQuirk got here yet?” asked Haley.
“I haven’t seen him. Sure, Gratten, it’s not at a side issue like this
he’d be, whin there’s McAteer’s nomination for Congress till be looked
after.”
“That’s where you make your little old mistake,” smiled Mr. Haley.
“This is the only fight in town; all the others is cinched; and Mac’ll
be on the ground to keep the gang in line.”
“An’ tell me, Gratten; d’yez t’ink Kelly will win?”
“Ye can search me! McQuirk says yes; but I wouldn’t put me roll on it,
at that. It runs t’rough me that there’ll be doin’s this mornin’, and
if Jim Kelly wins, it’ll be a mix for yer life. And if he goes under,
he’ll fall like a rotten wall!”
“I hear the young fellys’ll be contestin’ Tim Daily an’ what’s-his-name
that kapes the policy shop. Young Kerrigan do be after tellin’ me that
they got the papers by a trick.”
Owen was innocence personified; he knew that Haley possessed
information that would be of use.
“Oh, they’ll contest ’em, all right,” laughed Haley.
“Here comes the kickers!” shouted Martin Kelly. “The marks is gotta
band, too. Don’t they look gay?”
The anti-Kellyites had swept around the corner with their band playing
a “cake-walk” march, their flags waving and themselves cheering
lustily. O’Connor, the undertaker, had just arrived in one of his own
hacks and now shook hands with his friends.
“The young fellas,” smiled O’Connor, “bate the divil whin they cut
loose. Sure, here they are with the Emmet Band till the fore, ready
till nail Kelly’s hide on the back dure. Well, well, an’ so Alex
McGlory’ll go afore the convention?”
“So I’ve heard,” said one of his friends. “Just to t’ink av ‘McGlory
an’ clane streets’ as a campaign cry.” The speaker paused, delighted
with the shout that greeted his sally; then he added “Here comes
Gartenheim, O’Connor; sure this time a few years ago yezsilf an’ him
wur at it, hard enough.”
O’Connor smiled patronizingly, and reared his head in his most
dignified fashion; Gartenheim, stout, rosy and smiling was advancing
toward him through a lane of outstretched hands.
“Gartenheim, how are ye?”
“O’Connor, I’m glad to see you!”
And the ancient foes grasped each other by the hand, while the gaping
spectators swore soft oaths of wonder.
The band had ceased playing; the marchers were halted in the street and
this reconciliation was in plain view. Roddy Ferguson swung his derby
hat above his head, shouting:
“Gents, t’ree cheers for Gartenheim and O’Connor!”
A whirlwind of shrieks swept over the crowd, sustained until the veins
of their necks swelled to bursting and their faces turned purple;
sticks, hats and flags were tossed wildly in the air.
The two gentlemen whose public burial of the hatchet occasioned this
outburst, bowed and smiled genially and once more shook hands, which
had the effect of renewing the tumult. James Kelly and his supporters
gazed glumly on; the delirious display was not pleasant to them.
“Bloody wars,” breathed Owen in Haley’s ear, “d’yez see that, Gratten?
They’ve made up.”
“It looks bad for Kelly,” admitted Mr. Haley; “and he don’t like it for
a cent.”
“Here’s them two old guys doin’ the love feast stunt,” sneered young
Kelly, “right out in the open. It’s bin fixed to cop votes with; a
blind man kin see that. It makes me sick!”
“We’ll do that all right,” said Goose McGonagle; “youse’ll all be a
sick lot o’ ducks after we slam youse a few.”
The procession had broken ranks; the members of the band had blown
themselves breathless and beaten their arms helpless, and now dispersed
into saloons adjacent to the hall to seek refreshment. The delegates,
by degrees, began to drift upstairs to the room where the convention
was to be held. Here a band, perched in a little gallery at the back,
discoursed music; a flag hung from every point where it was possible
to drive a nail; the platform stood at the far end holding an array of
chairs and tables.
Dick Nolan and Roddy Ferguson, who formed the connecting links between
the formerly hostile factions of Gartenheim and O’Connor, were working
desperately with delegates; they felt that it depended upon them to
secure a solid vote from these two bodies, and they spared themselves
no effort. Neither the undertaker nor the contractor had been active
in the canvass, so their personal followings were not heavy in the
convention; but it served to give the anti-Kelly faction a slight
advantage that they were compelled to exert themselves to the utmost
to sustain. Each man in the hall with a ballot to cast was under
pressure to vote against them, and the pressure would be increased a
hundred-fold when McQuirk got upon the ground.
Gartenheim had Larry Murphy in a corner giving him some fatherly
advice; O’Connor stood listening, with approving nods; Kerrigan,
red-faced and perspiring, came bustling up.
“Gentlemen,” asked he, “who are you for, for chairman?”
“Who do you want?” asked Gartenheim.
“Well, I’d like to see Pete Comisky hold the office. He’s a straight
man.”
“Peter’s all right,” said O’Connor.
“Who do you say, Larry?” inquired Kerrigan.
“Grat Haley.”
“Haley!” Kerrigan stared at him amazedly. “Haley! Why you’re mad.
Haley would rule against us every time.”
“He might--if we let him. It’s just like this. Haley’s got the
chairmanship cinched; no one else can win against him; I’ve been over
the bunch, and I know.” Larry took his cigar from his mouth and pointed
it at Kerrigan, impressively. “The chairmanship’s the first test o’
strength. Make a fight on that and lose, and youse might as well chuck
up the sponge, on the spot. We’ve got grafters on our side, Johnnie,
and you know it; if they see us shake they’ll fly the coop.”
“That sounds good,” admitted Kerrigan. “What do you suggest?”
“We’ll t’row our vote to Haley; they can’t see our hand then; and we’ll
hold all our people for the real work.”
“But Daily and Levitsky!” remonstrated Kerrigan. “He’ll seat them,
they’ll vote and they have no right!”
“They kin seat all they want,” determinedly, “but they don’t vote for
Kelly.”
“You’re a bolitician, Larry,” said Gartenheim, admiringly. “Dot’s a
good scheme, ain’d it?”
“Say, Larry,” said Roddy Ferguson, allowing a crowd of delegates to
precede him to the stairs, “I’m goin’ out to t’row a couple o’ beers
into this gang. Look out for Nolan while I’m out, will ye? Don’t let
him get near Mart Kelly.”
“What’s on the hooks?”
“That’s all right; just keep an eye on him; we don’t want no trouble.”
“There’s McQuirk,” said Kerrigan, as that gentleman entered and shook
old Kelly’s hand with theatrical warmth. A crush of delegates gathered
about the boss, who seemed in high good humour. He stooped over and
whispered something in Kelly’s ear, and the saloonkeeper laughed
uproariously, his face growing mottled with excitement, his hands
gesticulating madly.
“We have thim!” vociferated the candidate, glowing upon his supporters
like a spotted sun; “we have thim on the run, so we have. Begorry,
McQuirk, it’s at school they shud be instead av playin’ at politics!”
“Keep it quiet,” advised McQuirk; “keep it quiet, and let’s get down to
business.” He took Haley aside. “How is it goin’?” questioned he.
“All to the good,” answered Mr. Haley. “The chairmanship’s ourn. There
ain’t no one else but me in sight!”
The boss laughed: “The old man’ll show ’em a few tricks,” said he
complacently. “I think they expected me to lay down, eh?”
After a time everything was in readiness; the temporary chairman
mounted the platform; the scribes of the gathering took their seats and
the convention came to order.
“Gentlemen,” said the temporary chairman, advancing to the edge of the
platform, “we are called together this morning to name a man for the
important office of selectman. I feel that--”
“Chop it off,” advised McGonagle.
“Order! Order!” came from different parts of the house.
The temporary chairman was an elderly man, little known and with a
colourless manner. He endeavoured to go on with his remarks but the
volume of interruption steadily increased.
“We will proceed with the business of electing a chairman,” said he at
length.
McQuirk was on his feet in an instant; Larry followed, also demanding
recognition.
“McQuirk,” said the chairman.
“I give you,” said the boss, “the name of Gratten Haley, of the
nineteenth division, for chairman.”
The supporters of Kelly leaped to their feet with shrieking acclaim; it
was some moments before Larry could be heard.
“I second the nomination of Mr. Haley,” said he, “and move that his
’lection to the chair be made unanimous!”
Dead silence followed. McQuirk looked dumbfounded; Larry smiled sweetly
at him over the heads of the intervening delegates. The vote was a
rising one, and the temporary chairman surrendered the gavel to Haley.
McQuirk was dazed, but respectful; old Kelly smiled broadly and rubbed
his hands gleefully; young Murphy moved among the opposition like a
spirit of wisdom.
McQuirk once more arose. “Let’s keep things moving,” said he. “There
has been no protest against anyone sitting in the convention, with the
exception of Mr. Daily and Mr. Levitsky. We will now look into their
cases.”
“I wouldn’t,” sneered McGonagle, “take too much work on me shoulders,
if I was youse. I’d let the chairman do a little.”
“Shut up.”
“Fire him out!”
“I’d like,” growled Goose, “to see any of youse try to fire me out.”
“Cheese it; sit down, and keep yer shirt on!” warned Larry, leaning
forward, “if youse make trouble now, I’ll put a muzzle on ye.”
Johnnie Kerrigan was entrusted with the business of protesting against
the seating of Levitsky and Daily; but Haley, as was expected, carried
matters with a high hand, and overruled him at all points.
“All right,” said Kerrigan, “you can let ’em vote if you want to, and I
know you want to; you can use ’em in your business.”
The Kellyites were triumphant and voiced it until the hall was filled
with their clamour.
“We’ve got ’em burnt to the ground!” declared Martin Kelly. “Why, the
mugs capped the game for us! They must be rank suckers.”
The roll was called amid much tumult; then Chairman Haley hammered with
his gavel for order; when something like silence had been obtained, he
said:
“Gentlemen, our object is to get done with the business in hand as soon
as we can. We will, therefore, pass over all unnecessary forms and go
into the matter of nominating our candidate at once.”
Mr. Haley had carefully rehearsed this little speech during those
moments when there was nothing doing behind the bar over which he
presided, and was much pleased with the applause which it provoked. He
added:
“The chair recognizes Mr. Shulze.”
Mr. Shulze arose amid much disorder on the part of the insurgents.
By virtue of his ability to deliver a certain amount of goods each
election Mr. Shulze held a position in the post-office; he had a
voice like a megaphone, and a fixed set of gestures that resembled
the jerkings of an automatic doll. In tones that shook the windows he
placed the elder Kelly in nomination, and sat down amid a whirlwind of
cheers.
Johnnie Kerrigan got up to name McGlory; he had not spoken a dozen
words before the contractor and his son Jerry, rushed into the hall and
beckoned the speaker and Larry into an anteroom. The old man was pale
and agitated; Jerry acted like a man dazed.
“What’s the graft?” asked Larry.
“He’s quit at the post!” exclaimed Jerry. “He’s laid down like a dub.”
“No!” cried the two young men, aghast.
“I’m tellin’ youse, ain’t I. From a kid up,” added Jerry, bitterly, “I
t’ought the old gent was an ace, but now I find he’s on’y a two-spot!
Say, I t’row up the towel; I’ll never stack against the bunch again.”
Kerrigan grasped the elder man’s arm. “Why, McGlory,” protested he,
“you’re not going to shirk at the last moment, are you?”
“I’m sorry,” said the contractor, “but I can’t allow me name till be
used.” He was trembling under the stress of the moment and looked
appealingly from one to the other. “Don’t blame me too much,” implored
he. “I have too much at stake, b’ys. Sure iv I make the fight, it’s a
ruint man I’d be.”
There was a pause; Jerry was viciously biting at his nails; Larry was
fighting visibly to keep down his anger; from the main hall came the
subdued roar of many voices.
“Afore God!” exclaimed the contractor, “I niver t’ought till do the
like av this! But they have me on the hip, divil take thim, and I can
do no better.”
“Let ’em do youse outa the contract,” rapped out his son. “Let the
whole shootin’ match go t’ell! Youse can do better’n scratch streets.”
“Shut yer mouth,” roared McGlory. “Don’t be stanin’ there talkin’
till me like that. Lose the contract is it, with Matthew Fitzmaurice
holdin’ a paper agin me beyant in his rale estate office? Divil a long
it’s stay in his safe iv he knowed I’d no contract. Gawd help yez
for a fool! Is it till the La Salle College yez cud have gone, iv it
hadn’t been for the contract? An’ how many av thim young fellys wid the
flowers in their coats ’ed call till see yez sister av a Sunday night,
widout it? Tell me that, ye igit!”
“Ease up,” soothed Kerrigan; “I wouldn’t make any trouble between you
for the world.”
“Then this goes?” said Larry.
“I have sorra another word till say,” answered McGlory.
Larry turned to Kerrigan. “D’youse see anyt’ing?” asked he. “Is it our
finish?”
“Not in a thousand years!” retorted the young attorney. “Find another
man for the running; I’ll go in there an’ do some spell-binding while
you canvass the crowd. If Gartenheim’ll swing in line for O’Connor,
give me the word and I’ll name him.”
They left the McGlorys engaged in a wordy duel, and rushed back into
the main hall. McQuirk, the Kellys and some others of their adherents
were gathered in the doorway leading into the entry; they greeted the
young men with a laugh.
“All to the bad, eh?” sneered Martin. “Yer star nag’s on’y a sellin’
plater.”
“What’d I tell ye, boys,” said McQuirk with the easy assurance of a man
who has won his fight. “There’s only one man. We’ve got the nomination
safe, ye can see that. Now don’t be sore-heads; be nice, clean boys,
an’ ye won’t miss anything.”
Kerrigan hurried into the convention hall without replying; but Larry
turned on the boss like a sullen bear.
“Don’t josh us, McQuirk,” warned he, “because we won’t stand for it.
Youse people ain’t scooped the pot yet, so don’t give yerself the glad
hand.”
“Come, come,” smiled McQuirk, winking at his co-labourers, “don’t take
it so hard. Alex McGlory knows where he stands, and he shows good sense
when he gets out from under.”
“Don’t take me for a mark!” flared Murphy, shoving his head forward,
his jaw protruding, wickedly. “We kin split the shootin’ match wide
open, McQuirk, and afore we let youse git the bulge with Kelly, we’ll
do it. If youse are wise, ye’ll write that on yer cuff.”
He rushed into the convention hall, hot with anger; Nolan, Ferguson and
others of his lieutenants were quickly enlightened as to the state of
affairs, and they passed the word among the others that someone other
than McGlory would be named, at the same time working zealously to
allay the feeling of insecurity that these tidings naturally aroused.
Kerrigan was speaking and the convention was giving him its undivided
attention. The youthful attorney possessed that self-assured poise and
explosive style that captures such gatherings; and then he was easily
the most popular young man in the ward, and his father’s saloon was a
well-known place of resort. Most of the younger men among the delegates
had gone to school with him, and though they, for the most part, were
day-labourers and Johnnie had his name painted upon a ground-glass door
in a down-town office building, he had always kept up old friendships
and clung to old surroundings. As one of his friends said:
“Johnnie’s a high guy, but he’s as common as dirt; he don’t have to
put ice in his hat to keep his head from swellin’. When youse stack up
against him on the street, he’s always got the glad hand for youse, and
a cigar what ain’t workin’.”
It was this democratic quality that made him liked and secured him
attention from the delegates when he arose to deliver the address that
was to give Larry an opportunity to select a new candidate.
These facts came to Larry as he paused for a moment to listen; and like
one inspired he proceeded to consult Ferguson and Nolan.
“Somethin’s gotta be done, and done quick,” said he. “Now look here, if
I go against Gartenheim and ask him to turn in for O’Connor, what’ll he
say?”
“He’ll say, ‘nay, nay, Pauline!’” exclaimed Ferguson.
“Youse’ll queer the game if youse do that,” protested Nolan.
“That’s what I t’ought. And how about O’Connor for Gartenheim?”
“There’s no difference,” said Nolan. “If one was ast to work for the
other he’d git dead wise all of a sudden and t’ink he was bein’ worked
for a good t’ing, and havin’ a con game slung into him from the start!
It won’t do; take it from me.”
“Then I’ve gotta bran’ new graft!” exclaimed Larry starting up the
aisle.
“What is it?” asked Ferguson, following him, his hand upon his sleeve.
“Sit down and hold yer breath; youse’ll be wise in a minute.”
Larry said something to Kerrigan in a low tone. Johnnie looked
surprised; he closed his remarks abruptly and sat down, while Larry
nodded to the chair for recognition. Upon obtaining this he wasted no
words.
“Gentlemen,” said he, “I’m goin’ to put in nomination a man that
youse can all vote for.” He paused a moment and glanced around at the
expectant faces; he raised both arms, with a sweep and shouted: “Mr.
John Kerrigan, of the 12th Division!”
For an instant there was dead silence; then the anti-Kellyites came to
their feet with an ear-splitting scream of delight. Kerrigan sprang to
Larry’s side protesting excitedly; men stood upon chairs and beat the
backs of their neighbours; pandemonium reigned. Kerrigan was ringed in
by dozens of outstretched hands; his appeals for a hearing were drowned
by the clamour of his partisans.
James Kelly was stricken mute; a moment before he had seen victory in
his grasp; now it had eluded him and was dancing away in the distance.
McQuirk looked on at the scene of disorder, astonished at Larry’s act.
He had expected to hear the name of a man steeped in the factional
differences of the ward--a man easily beaten--and now he was at a
loss, for here was one not only without political enemies but with fast
friends in every faction of the party.
“It ain’t a half-bad move,” said the boss to himself, angry, but forced
to admiration. “If I wasn’t sure about McGlory, I’d say the thing was
fixed.”
Haley hammered vigorously for order; old Kelly and his friends were
gathered in a clump, shouting their observations in each other’s ears;
Larry stood near the platform, frantically endeavouring to attract the
chairman’s attention, and turning every moment to swear at his friends
for their uproar. He saw that the moment for action was at hand; the
surprise had been sprung and had given his faction heart, and he
determined to strike again while they were white hot. Gradually the
noise began to settle; and, though now and then a cheer volleyed across
the hall, his voice could be heard:
“A vote,” stormed he, “a vote.”
The cry was taken up by a dozen voices.
“Vote! Vote!” vociferated the insurgents. “Take the vote!”
This, at a nod from McQuirk, Haley proceeded to do; the secretary
began to read off the names, and the delegates answered “Kelly” or
“Kerrigan” as the case might be. As the vote began, a concerted
movement of a dozen young men, led by Larry and McGonagle, was made
toward the point where Daily and Levitsky were sitting.
“Changed yer mind, Daily?” questioned Larry.
“Not on yer life,” answered Daily, but with an uneasy glance about him.
He saw in their faces that they were ready for anything; and that they
were awkward men to handle, he knew, partly from experience, partly by
hearsay.
“I t’ink youse’ll turn in for Kerrigan when they hand out yer name.”
Larry leaned carelessly upon the back of Daily’s chair, and spoke very
quietly.
“It’s just as easy to say Kerrigan as Kelly,” put in McGonagle, “an’ I
guess Levitsky’ll say it, too, when it’s up to him.”
“I wut like to oblitch your--” began the policy-writer.
“Ah, rats!” returned McGonagle, savagely. “Youse’ll chirp for Kerrigan,
or the next stunt youse’ll do’ll be at the morgue, stretchin’ slabs!”
“Play light, Goose,” advised Larry, “I t’ink they’ll be in line.”
News of the state of affairs reached the elder Kelly as he stood
talking to McQuirk at the far side of the room; and they hurried toward
the storm centre to prevent the coercion of their vote. Because of some
trifling hitch the polling of the delegates had stopped for the time
being, and Haley and the secretary were wrangling with a cluster of men
about the platform.
A man rushed up the aisle and stopped McQuirk, at the same time handing
him a card.
“He wants to see youse right away,” said the stranger.
“Go ahead over and talk to them, Kelly,” said McQuirk. “I’ve got to go
out for a second.”
“What’s this,” asked Kelly, upon reaching the spot where Larry and his
friends were gathered behind the chairs of the two protested delegates.
“What call have yez till be threatenin’ these two min?”
“Who’s threatenin’ ’em?” asked McGonagle, innocently.
“You are, ye bla’gard!” exclaimed the saloonkeeper, hotly. “You an’ the
likes av yez. Divil take me, bud youse’ll sup sorra for it, ye thaves
av the world.”
“Ah, go scratch yer head,” elegantly advised Larry. “Don’t cut loose
with any o’ yer fireworks, Kelly; youse’re carryin’ weight for age and
don’t work fast enough to mix it with this bunch.”
“Youse’d t’ink,” said Martin Kelly, coming to the aid of his father,
“that youse people run the shack, and no other body has a look in.”
His proximity and the sound of his voice had an immediate effect upon
Dick Nolan; his sister’s shame and young Kelly’s brutality on the night
of the ball had burned themselves into his brain.
“Let me plug him,” gasped Nolan, his face as white as death, his
whole frame shaking with an overwhelming desire for revenge. He was
struggling as he spoke in the arms of Roddy Ferguson; but Roddy dragged
him away.
“Don’t make a mess of it,” implored Roddy. “If youse jump him now ye’ll
put the whole snap on the bum, maybe.”
“What’s eatin’ Nolan?” asked McGonagle, wonderingly.
“He’s leary on Kelly, youse can bank on that,” answered Casey. “From
the cracks he made to me a while ago, he’s goin’ to put him out o’
business. I don’t know what he’s sore for.”
The commotion attracted Haley’s attention and he commenced to sound his
gavel and cry for order. The roll-call recommenced and just as Kelly
turned to acquaint the chairman with the attempt being made upon Daily,
that gentleman’s name was reached.
“Now then!” grated Larry. The circle narrowed about Daily as he arose
to his feet. Martin Kelly attempted to rally his friends; but the
determined looks of the cordon of young men and Daily’s unpopularity
caused it to result in nothing more than a scattering fire of protest.
Daily swallowed several times, and his voice was somewhat husky, as he
said:
“I’ve got this to say: As I was ’lected by the parties against Mr.
Kelly, I t’ink it’s best for me to save me reputation by votin’ for
Kerrigan.”
“Youse saved a damn sight more’n your reputation,” observed Murphy, as
they turned away to give their attention to Levitsky.
In the meantime McQuirk had hurried out into the entry to see the
person who had sent in the card. It was he with whom he had had the
conversation in the Precinct Club a few hours before.
“Well,” said the gentleman, “what do ye know? Did McGlory do the right
thing?”
“Yes, and almost put them in the ditch. But they’ve got their second
wind, now, and I don’t like the looks of things.”
“No?” The politician looked questioningly at McQuirk, and then added:
“They’ve fixed upon a new man? Who is it?”
“Young John Kerrigan.”
“Humph! He’s well liked, too, isn’t he?”
“He’s about the last man I’d want them to push forward.”
The other reflected a moment, then said:
“You can win, though, can’t you?”
A henchman of McQuirk’s rushed into the entry and looked anxiously up
and down.
“Of course,” said McQuirk.
“Tom!” exclaimed the supporter, hurrying up. “Daily’s just voted for
Kerrigan, and Levitsky’s goin’ to do the same!”
“I’ll take it back,” said McQuirk, coolly. “They’ve got me hung up.”
“For heaven’s sake, don’t let that happen!”
“It’s bound to unless--”
“Unless what?”
“We drop Kelly and turn in for Kerrigan.”
“How does he stand on the franchise business?”
“He’s against it.”
“Then fight it out with them! If they split the party we can elect
Kelly on the opposing ticket as was done last time.”
“Not if I know it!” said McQuirk, frowning at the lobbyist.
“What! I say, Mac, you’re not gitting weak-kneed at the last moment,
are you?”
“I’m ready to stand in and help your company out as long as I can do
it regularly. This is _my_ ward and the only way to keep it my ward is
to be a regular. I’m against split tickets, you know that. If young
Kerrigan can swing the convention, I’m for Kerrigan.”
“But think of what this means? This vote must be had or we will fall
flat.”
“And I must carry my ward,” said McQuirk. “If I lose twice in
succession you’ll be makin’ deals with another man next election; I’ll
have lost my grip.”
Upon McQuirk’s return to the convention hall his adherents gathered
about him; he paid no attention to them, but at once buttonholed the
elder Kelly and drew him aside. The first ballot had resulted in a
tie and the second had not yet begun; Kerrigan, reconciled to the
situation, was receiving the noisy congratulations of his friends; the
band in the gallery brayed and throbbed through a popular air. Suddenly
a volley of incoherent adjectives came from James Kelly; his face was
purple with wrath and he gesticulated with the fury of one demented. No
one caught the words, but all saw that McQuirk was the object of his
vituperations.
“There’s a plank loose,” prophesied McGonagle. “It must be a come-back,
he’s makin’ it so strong.”
McQuirk broke away from Kelly’s detaining clutch and approached the
group surrounding Kerrigan; the delegates, clearly seeing that
something important was about to occur, pressed about him.
“Gentlemen,” said the boss, “above everything else we must preserve
unity. As things stand, I would advise you all to turn in for Mr.
Kerrigan.”
The compact mass of delegates was torn as by a tempest; personal
friends of Kelly stormed about McQuirk with clamorous denunciations;
the opposition in a frenzy of rapture, hoisted their candidate upon
their shoulders and began a march of victory about the hall, while the
band blared brazenly through the noise.
When at length comparative silence had been restored, the poll
recommenced. McQuirk’s “advice” to his followers had been rightly
interpreted as an order, and the name of Kerrigan seemed to be on every
lip as man after man responded to his name. Upon its conclusion and
Haley’s announcing that Kerrigan had won by more than two-thirds of the
vote, the uproar broke out afresh. Suddenly, however, it hushed and all
crowded toward the rear end of the hall. There was a quick grinding
of feet upon the floor, a heaving of straining bodies, a growling of
curses between tight-shut teeth. In the centre of the crowd, his face
smeared with blood, fighting viciously, was Martin Kelly. With the
full, swinging strength of their arms Nolan and Ferguson were battering
at him and all who sought to interfere; upon the outskirts of the crowd
the elder Kelly, white-faced, blue-lipped, and gasping, desperately
sought to break through to the aid of his son.
“He’s down!” shouted a voice.
“Let him up!” protested a second.
“Give him the leather!” advised still another.
Larry and McGonagle and some others fought their way through the press
and tore Nolan and Ferguson away.
A half hour later a patrol wagon dashed away from the hall toward the
nearest hospital bearing the bleeding, broken form of young Kelly. Upon
the steps stood his assailants in the custody of two policemen, and
with their friends gathered about them.
“Don’t make no kick,” said Larry. “The cops game is too strong for
youse. Go ahead with ’em.”
“Make no resistance,” advised O’Connor. “I’ll try if they’ll take bail
for yez in the mornin’.”