“What d’yez want av me?” asked he.
“Yer got a pink ticket there. Just open it and paste this sticker over Pete Slattery’s name.”
“Divil the bit! Sure, Slattery’s a friend av mine, an’ a customer.”
“But, say, he’s for Kelly! Ye ain’t goin’ to help that slob to lick us, are ye?”
“For Kelly! Begorry, they niver towld me that. Where’s yez sticker? Divil a boost’ll I give a man that’s for James Kelly.”
A deep murmur that swelled into a smothered roar came from the cigar store where the balloting was being held. A dense group of excited, gesticulating workers were gathered about the table; in their midst stood two men, their noses almost together, their faces pale, their voices high-pitched and angry.
“Ye don’t vote, see,” declared one. “Ye ain’t got no vote, here, and that goes.”
“I’m as good a Democrat as youse,” maintained the other, “you’re a mugwump, ye stiff!”
“You’re a liar!”
In an instant they had clinched and were making maddened efforts to strike. A policeman rushed in, tore them apart and hustled one out upon the sidewalk. Murphy desperately forced his way through the crowd; he saw a vote being lost to his faction, and the sight aroused all his combativeness.