Songs of the Curb.
WHEN the two young men pushed open the door leading to the club’s parlour, they found themselves in a vortex of wild enthusiasm. The congregated members, for the most part, were coatless; and with cigars clinched between their teeth they madly gyrated about the room to the tune of:
“Oh Murphy he was paralyzed,
McCarty couldn’t see,
I was drunk, but Ferguson,
Was a damn sight worse than me!”
Danny Casey, his suspenders slipped from his shoulders and his derby hat tipped back upon his head, presided at the piano; McGlory, standing upon the pool table waved his arms like a bandmaster.
Mike McCarty appeared to be the only sane person in the place; he stood in the doorway that led to the adjoining room, as self-possessed, as well-dressed as ever, a smile upon his face. Though he was born in an alley and of a woman who took in washing, Mike, in instinct, taste and deportment, was a gentleman. Seeing Larry and McGonagle enter, he beckoned them into the other room and closed the door.
“The push is havin’ a good time,” remarked Larry. “That’s a lovely skate McGlory’s got.”
“They’re all about half lit up,” returned McCarty; “and they are plumb daffy, too. It’s best to save yer sky-rockets till after the game’s won; ain’t that right?”