“Then fight it out with them! If they split the party we can elect Kelly on the opposing ticket as was done last time.”
“Not if I know it!” said McQuirk, frowning at the lobbyist.
“What! I say, Mac, you’re not gitting weak-kneed at the last moment, are you?”
“I’m ready to stand in and help your company out as long as I can do it regularly. This is my ward and the only way to keep it my ward is to be a regular. I’m against split tickets, you know that. If young Kerrigan can swing the convention, I’m for Kerrigan.”
“But think of what this means? This vote must be had or we will fall flat.”
“And I must carry my ward,” said McQuirk. “If I lose twice in succession you’ll be makin’ deals with another man next election; I’ll have lost my grip.”
Upon McQuirk’s return to the convention hall his adherents gathered about him; he paid no attention to them, but at once buttonholed the elder Kelly and drew him aside. The first ballot had resulted in a tie and the second had not yet begun; Kerrigan, reconciled to the situation, was receiving the noisy congratulations of his friends; the band in the gallery brayed and throbbed through a popular air. Suddenly a volley of incoherent adjectives came from James Kelly; his face was purple with wrath and he gesticulated with the fury of one demented. No one caught the words, but all saw that McQuirk was the object of his vituperations.
“There’s a plank loose,” prophesied McGonagle. “It must be a come-back, he’s makin’ it so strong.”
McQuirk broke away from Kelly’s detaining clutch and approached the group surrounding Kerrigan; the delegates, clearly seeing that something important was about to occur, pressed about him.
“Gentlemen,” said the boss, “above everything else we must preserve unity. As things stand, I would advise you all to turn in for Mr. Kerrigan.”