“I should say so! He’d give him the knife in a minute. Say,” continued Moran, suddenly, “ain’t you on the wrong track, McQuirk? You don’t want to make an enemy of Murphy, he’s growin’ up and beginning to take notice, don’t you know? Keep him in line; one young one’s as good as a half dozen old ones, and they do more and don’t ask as much. Ain’t that right?”
The boss looked at his watch, snapped the case shut, and dropped it into his pocket.
“I’m going down to the Precinct Club,” said he. “The committee holds a pow-wow there in half an hour, and I must make good.”
“But, say,” went on the magistrate tenaciously, “what’s the good word, Mac? Sling me a line on it, so’s I can put the boys next. Is it Kelly or nothin’? Or is it Kelly if we can?”
McQuirk cleared his throat and twisted his fingers among the links of his watch chain. He was not revolving a decision—that had been made weeks ago. He merely wanted his honour to draw his answer more from his manner than his words. He had seen political friendships broken before now; and he had also seen men’s words, quoted in fat type, posted upon fences.
“We’ll do what we can for Kelly,” said he, “yes, we’ll do all we can for him.”
Moran smiled when his visitor left, and caressed his dyed moustache.
“Just as foxy!” murmured he. “It’ll be a slick member that ever makes him slip his hold, and that’s no dream. If Murphy draws the most water why Kelly gets entered among the also rans, that’s all.”
Not many members of the Aurora Borealis Club who had entered the political arena against Kelly had gone to work that day. Some were canvassing their divisions for votes or information, and others lounged about the club rooms, ready for anything that might turn up. Larry Murphy, wearing a deep black band about his hat, dropped in during the morning.
“We’re goin’ to do him,” said Larry, after a long talk with his friends. “If anybody ever needed a lickin’, it’s Mart Kelly. He wants it bad!”