The mayor looked a bit relieved, and turned toward Malachi with half a smile.
“Excuse me, Alderman, I supposed, of course—But what can I do for you?” He repeated his formula.
Malachi seated himself, and dangling his hat between his knees, he said:
“They’s a laad from my waard in the Bridewell, Jawn, an’ he’s a mother who’s wallopin’ a wash-board be th’ daay an’ night fer to make a livin’. His name’s James McGlone, an’ I’m afther a paardon fer ’im.”
The mayor scowled. “What’s he in for?”
“Damned if I know,” said Malachi; “he’s all the time in wan shcrape or anither with some o’ thim bla’gyaards down there.”
The mayor was turning a long blue pencil over and over, end for end, between his white fingers, making a series of monotonous tappings on his desk.
“Can’t you wait till after election?” he said at last.
“His time’ll be served out befoore that,” said Malachi, “an’ ph’at good’ll a paardon do ’im thin?”
The mayor continued the thoughtful tapping with his long blue pencil.