“McGlory,” said the lobbyist, “mus’n’t think he’s too big a fish. Some other people that I know of will give the administration as good a rake-off, and be glad of the chance.” He got upon his feet, as their conference was over and shook McQuirk encouragingly by the hand. “Just send for him, and talk things over. Alex’s got good sense; he’ll see the point.”
“I don’t think he’d come,” said McQuirk, “so I’ll go over and see him.”
“All right,” said the other, “do as you think best. And, say, how’s Conlin doing with the vote in his division?”
McQuirk compressed his lips. “Bad,” returned he. “They separated him from it, clean.”
“I think,” mused the other, “that Conlin’s too short for the police force. The examining board’s mighty strict just now, Mac.”
The ward boss grinned. “He won’t like it much,” said he. “It’s funny,” he went on, humorously, “how much better tall men are at gittin’ out the vote than short ones.”
The other laughed. “You’re right, Mac,” said he; “but let me say this, again, before I go: Whatever you do, don’t have a fight in your ward. Go into your convention and find the man that’s goin’ to win—and stand good with him if we can handle him. The administration wants lots of friends next session.”
McQuirk found McGlory, dressed in his best, at the stables in Murphy’s Court, superintending the doctoring of a worn-looking horse. The contractor’s greeting was stiff and formal.
“Anyone got your proxy, Alex?” asked the boss, after they had exchanged some general remarks.
“I’ll go till the convintion mesilf,” answered McGlory. “There do be too damn much of this proxy business.”