Big Kennedy smiled upon the reputable old gentleman, but made no other reply.
“It's an outrage!” repeated the reputable old gentleman in a towering fury. “Do you hear? It's an outrage on the taxpaying citizens of this town!”
“Look out, old man!” observed a young fellow who stood at Big Kennedy's side, and who from his blackened hands and greasy blue shirt seemed to be the engineer of some tug. “Don't get too hot. You'll blow a cylinder head.”
“How dare you!” fumed the reputable old gentleman; “you, a mere boy by comparison! how dare you address me in such terms! I'm old enough, sir, to be your father! You should understand, sir, that I've voted for a president eight times in my life.”
“That's nothin',” returned the other gayly; “I have voted for a president eighty times before ten o'clock.”
In the midst of the laugh that followed this piece of characteristic wit, Big Kennedy crossed to where I stood.
“Send your boys along!” said he. “Let's see how good you are.”
My whistle screamed the signal. At the first sharp note, a cry went up:
“The Tin Whistles! The Tin Whistles!”
It was done in a moment; a pair to a man, my Tin Whistles were sending their quarry down the streets as fast as feet might follow. And they obeyed directions; not a blow was struck, no blood was drawn; there was a hustling flurry, and the others took to their heels. The hard repute of the Tin Whistles was such that no ten were wild enough to face them or meet their charge.