Kelly closed the door with a bang. “Damn the bit av good he is till me,” growled he, recommencing upon the glasses.
“Beers, Kel,” called Foley. “What’s the matter, old boy. Youse look mad.”
“Little wonder,” answered Kelly, drawing the beer and carrying it to where his customers sat. “Here I have McQuirk an’ young Haley till meet at the City Hall at noine be the day; it’s but a few minutes av it now, an’ divil take the wan I have till tind bar.”
“I heerd,” said one of the men, addressing the policy man, “that Levitsky’s place was pinched last night.”
“That’s right. He had some words with the lieutenant, and the loot sent a wagon down there t’cut even, see? But, say, he’s out an’ wide open for biz this mornin’, because McQuirk got him out as soon as he heard about it. Youse can’t queer the push!”
O’Hara came in through a side door; his face wore a fat smile, as he walked to the bar.
“Good mornin’, James,” saluted he.
“How are yez, Malachi?” returned the saloonkeeper, “is it yez mornin’s mornin’ ye’d be after?”
“Divil a ilce! Give me a sup out av the brown bottle, an’ a troifle o’ porter on the soide.”
“I suppose,” remarked old Kelly as the drink was tossed off and rung up on the cash register, “that ye’ll give me a lift at the primaries next wake.”