“What are youse buyin’ to-day, Daily?” inquired Foley.
“I’m a sucker for buyin’ anyt’ing;” complained Daily. He wore hob-nailed shoes and clothing covered with burnt spots which showed him to be an iron-worker. He took some loose silver from his pocket and selected a quarter. “Gimme that much,” said he, “o’ whatever ye t’ink’s hot.”
“I’m buyin’ the police row meself,” said the policy-writer.
“That’ll do,” said Daily. “It’s just the same; like t’rowin’ good money in the street.”
“Two’s a half?” inquired the other, glancing up.
“Not on yer life! If I strike the game I’ll hit it big, see? Good and hard! No gittin’ the small end, tryin’ to save me play.”
“It’s your say. Whistle yer own piece, me boy, if youse t’ink it’ll do ye any good.” The “writer” looked around at the array of half empty glasses and added, “drink yer beer, gents; we’ll have another.”
Kelly glanced at the clock over the bar. His frown grew heavier; and opening the door leading to the dwelling portion of the house, he cried:
“Is not Martin had breakfast yet.”
“I can’t swallow me feed whole,” came Martin’s voice angrily. “Shut up, will youse!”