“What’s the graft?” asked Larry.
“He’s quit at the post!” exclaimed Jerry. “He’s laid down like a dub.”
“No!” cried the two young men, aghast.
“I’m tellin’ youse, ain’t I. From a kid up,” added Jerry, bitterly, “I t’ought the old gent was an ace, but now I find he’s on’y a two-spot! Say, I t’row up the towel; I’ll never stack against the bunch again.”
Kerrigan grasped the elder man’s arm. “Why, McGlory,” protested he, “you’re not going to shirk at the last moment, are you?”
“I’m sorry,” said the contractor, “but I can’t allow me name till be used.” He was trembling under the stress of the moment and looked appealingly from one to the other. “Don’t blame me too much,” implored he. “I have too much at stake, b’ys. Sure iv I make the fight, it’s a ruint man I’d be.”
There was a pause; Jerry was viciously biting at his nails; Larry was fighting visibly to keep down his anger; from the main hall came the subdued roar of many voices.
“Afore God!” exclaimed the contractor, “I niver t’ought till do the like av this! But they have me on the hip, divil take thim, and I can do no better.”
“Let ’em do youse outa the contract,” rapped out his son. “Let the whole shootin’ match go t’ell! Youse can do better’n scratch streets.”
“Shut yer mouth,” roared McGlory. “Don’t be stanin’ there talkin’ till me like that. Lose the contract is it, with Matthew Fitzmaurice holdin’ a paper agin me beyant in his rale estate office? Divil a long it’s stay in his safe iv he knowed I’d no contract. Gawd help yez for a fool! Is it till the La Salle College yez cud have gone, iv it hadn’t been for the contract? An’ how many av thim young fellys wid the flowers in their coats ’ed call till see yez sister av a Sunday night, widout it? Tell me that, ye igit!”