Brennan’s color deepened to an angry red.
“Did ye iver see such narve!” said Malachi, ignoring the question. “Mike’ll call th’ convintion fer soon enough, but whin I’m not a candydate in me own waard, I’ll tell ye mesilf, Willum Brennan.”
“Well, don’t get mad about it, Mal’chi,” said Brennan, who was getting mad himself. He shoved the bottle on to Sullivan, and blinked his small eyelids a moment. “Of course, Mal’chi, it’s just as you say.”
“Well, now, ye’re talkin’, Willum.” Malachi never could brook anything like interference in his ruling of the First Ward. “Whin I’m done, ye can have th’ nomination, same’s I told ye, but this spring I’m a candydate mesilf, do ye mind that now?” He drew closer to the bar in his softened humor, and now that the question at last had been decided, and in the only way it could have been decided, he suddenly became himself again.
“When do you want the convention called for, Mr. Nolan?” asked Sullivan.
“Sathurday,” replied Malachi promptly.
“Where?”
“Oh, same as usual—in the back ind of th’ plaace here.” Malachi jerked his thick thumb toward the rear end of the saloon, where the gloom was deep. “Prim’ries fer Friday.”
“All right,” said Sullivan.
Then no one spoke for a while. Finally, however, Brennan said, in a hesitating way: