“That’s all right, see?” Larry was speaking in a loud, sharp tone, working his arms like flails. They had paused upon the sidewalk, before the door of the club. The piano was being thumped joyously and a thundering chorus came through the partly opened windows:
“I’m candidate,
For magistrate,
An’ believe me what I say,
So, pull off your coat,
An’ cast yer vote,
For me on ’lection day.”
The singing ceased suddenly and a voice shouted:
“What’s the matter wit’ Kelly?”
A cyclone of groans, hisses and profanity came whirling out into the night. The execrated one looked at McQuirk; and McQuirk shrugged his shoulders and laughed. A man got between the light and one of the club windows; his body, silhouetted upon the blind, writhed and swayed; his right hand flourished a beer glass above his head, apparently demanding silence. At last his voice was heard.