“Oh, they’ll contest ’em, all right,” laughed Haley.
“Here comes the kickers!” shouted Martin Kelly. “The marks is gotta band, too. Don’t they look gay?”
The anti-Kellyites had swept around the corner with their band playing a “cake-walk” march, their flags waving and themselves cheering lustily. O’Connor, the undertaker, had just arrived in one of his own hacks and now shook hands with his friends.
“The young fellas,” smiled O’Connor, “bate the divil whin they cut loose. Sure, here they are with the Emmet Band till the fore, ready till nail Kelly’s hide on the back dure. Well, well, an’ so Alex McGlory’ll go afore the convention?”
“So I’ve heard,” said one of his friends. “Just to t’ink av ‘McGlory an’ clane streets’ as a campaign cry.” The speaker paused, delighted with the shout that greeted his sally; then he added “Here comes Gartenheim, O’Connor; sure this time a few years ago yezsilf an’ him wur at it, hard enough.”
O’Connor smiled patronizingly, and reared his head in his most dignified fashion; Gartenheim, stout, rosy and smiling was advancing toward him through a lane of outstretched hands.
“Gartenheim, how are ye?”
“O’Connor, I’m glad to see you!”
And the ancient foes grasped each other by the hand, while the gaping spectators swore soft oaths of wonder.
The band had ceased playing; the marchers were halted in the street and this reconciliation was in plain view. Roddy Ferguson swung his derby hat above his head, shouting: