“I know,” said Mr. Burns.
“I want your support!” said McQuirk, bluntly. “There’s a movement to wall me up in me own division by a gang o’ would-be reformers; and I want all me friends to stand by me.”
“So yez want me vote?” asked Tim, as he wiped his mouth on a corner of the table-cloth and pushed back his chair.
“Sure; you’ve voted with the party ever since you got out your papers, an’ you’re entitled to a say in the primaries.”
“Have a cigar,” invited Haley, as Burns got up.
“I’ll smoke me poipe,” said Tim. He took it down from a shelf and knocked out the “heel” on the edge of the range, then proceeded to cut a fresh charge from a plug of “Rough and Ready,” with his pocket knife.
“I’m a Dimmycrat,” said Tim, “an’ plaze God, I’ll always stay wan.”
The boss beamed approval. “Now look here,” said he, “you know McAteer, don’t you? Well this other crowd want to do him out of the nomination because he sticks like glue to the party, see? Old Owen Dwyer’s on the ticket, instructed for him; so give Owen your support, eh?”
“McAteer,” spoke Mr. Burns, “is an able man, an’ Owen Dwyer, is a daysint wan, an’ a friend av my own.”
“So he is; you’re right, Tim! And then there’s Abrams for judge—Jimmie Hurley stands for him. Abrams is a sheeney, but he’s all right.”