A shout went up.
The tray of sandwiches, piled to an apex, scarcely endured one round of passing. The fluted tin tops of bottles were pried off. Tumblers clicked. There were the sing of suds and foamy overflowings.
Enter Mr. Ed Kinealy, very brown and tight of suit, very black and pomaded of hair.
"Oh, Ed!" This from Miss Kinealy between large mouthfuls of sandwich and somewhat jerkily from being dandled on Mr. Sensenbrenner's knee, "Where's your friend—where's John Gilly?"
"Oh, Ed!" "Naouw, Eh-ud!" "I'll give you a slap on the wrist." "Naouw, Ed!" Delivered by those present in a chorus of catcalls and falsetto impersonations of Miss Kinealy in plaintive vein.
"Now tell me—where is he, Ed? Shut up every body! Where is he, Ed?"
Mr. Kinealy shot a pair of very striped cuffs.
"That guy had sense. One whiff of this roughhouse and he bolted down again, six steps at a jump. He slipped me so easy I was talking to myself all the way up-stairs. That guy had sense. Petticoat shush-shush can't put nothing over on him."
"Aw, Ed!"
CHORUS: Aw, Eh-ud! Aw, Eh-ud! Naouw—