The officer spoke first. "This kid belong here?" he asked.
"Lives here," admitted Barber, swallowing.
"I take it ye're not a florist," went on Clancy.
"I ain't."
"Ah! In that case,"—firmly—"ye'll not be sendin' anny boy out on to the street t' sell roses: leastways, not without the proper license, which ye can ask for up at City Hall." Next, the patrolman gave Johnnie a friendly shove toward the middle of the room. "Hand the posies t' yer sister, young man," he commanded.
Johnnie darted to obey, and Cis made a joyous start toward him. Their hands touched, and the roses changed keeper.
Meanwhile Barber had gained back a little of his usual self-confidence. "Oh, all right," he remarked. "But we need money a lot more'n flowers."
"That's as it may be," conceded Clancy, dryly. "But—the law's the law, and I'll just tell ye this much":—he emphasized his statement by pointing the stick—"ye're lucky t' 'scape a fine! Seein' ye're so short o' cash!"
Most men, as Barber liked to boast, did not dare to give the longshoreman any of their "lip." But now he was careful to accept the ultimatum of the officer without a show of temper. "Guess I am," he assented.
Clancy nodded. "And I'll see ye later, Father Pat?" he inquired, giving the priest a meaning glance.