“Ease up,” soothed Kerrigan; “I wouldn’t make any trouble between you for the world.”
“Then this goes?” said Larry.
“I have sorra another word till say,” answered McGlory.
Larry turned to Kerrigan. “D’youse see anyt’ing?” asked he. “Is it our finish?”
“Not in a thousand years!” retorted the young attorney. “Find another man for the running; I’ll go in there an’ do some spell-binding while you canvass the crowd. If Gartenheim’ll swing in line for O’Connor, give me the word and I’ll name him.”
They left the McGlorys engaged in a wordy duel, and rushed back into the main hall. McQuirk, the Kellys and some others of their adherents were gathered in the doorway leading into the entry; they greeted the young men with a laugh.
“All to the bad, eh?” sneered Martin. “Yer star nag’s on’y a sellin’ plater.”
“What’d I tell ye, boys,” said McQuirk with the easy assurance of a man who has won his fight. “There’s only one man. We’ve got the nomination safe, ye can see that. Now don’t be sore-heads; be nice, clean boys, an’ ye won’t miss anything.”
Kerrigan hurried into the convention hall without replying; but Larry turned on the boss like a sullen bear.
“Don’t josh us, McQuirk,” warned he, “because we won’t stand for it. Youse people ain’t scooped the pot yet, so don’t give yerself the glad hand.”