McGlory stiffened up and bent his brows at him.
“I have hopes av it,” said he, soberly.
“Well, don’t be foolish. Things happen, sometimes, you know.”
“Look here, Tom McQuirk, is it threatenin’ me yez are?”
“I never threaten anybody, I do things, you know that.”
“Ye threatened Kelly, an’ ye done nawthin’.”
“That’s all right. You’re not inside, Alex; ye don’t know everything. Now think the thing over, as ye go down to the hall; and take my advice—keep your eye on your bread and butter! That’s all.”
The crowd on Girard Avenue had been waiting for over an hour for some sign of a stir, when a sudden blare of brass instruments and a thundering drubbing of drums broke forth, and into the avenue wheeled the Emmet Band, Eddie Brennen at its head, splendid in a scarlet coat and towering shako, his drum-major’s staff whirling about his head like a metallic circle. Hogan, the policeman, darted into the street with uplifted club, to hold back the teams from the cross streets. The throng ranged quickly along the curb; from the adjacent alleys poured a horde of whooping children; draymen pulled up their nags in order to watch the passing cohorts. Everyone knew that the gathering of the clans had begun.
It was the anti-Kelly faction, and they swung along behind the drums like veterans. Those of them who were to sit in the convention wore huge scarlet badges upon their breasts. Larry Murphy, in all the glory of a high silk hat, borrowed from one of McGrath’s hack drivers, marched at the head of the column, and his aids, Nolan and Ferguson, were immediately behind him.
“Be me soul!” ejaculated the grocer, “bud young Brennen kin twirl his bit av a stick, so he kin. An’ luk at the walk av Murphy; sure yez’ed t’ink he had a mortgage on the City Hall!”