The compact mass of delegates was torn as by a tempest; personal friends of Kelly stormed about McQuirk with clamorous denunciations; the opposition in a frenzy of rapture, hoisted their candidate upon their shoulders and began a march of victory about the hall, while the band blared brazenly through the noise.
When at length comparative silence had been restored, the poll recommenced. McQuirk’s “advice” to his followers had been rightly interpreted as an order, and the name of Kerrigan seemed to be on every lip as man after man responded to his name. Upon its conclusion and Haley’s announcing that Kerrigan had won by more than two-thirds of the vote, the uproar broke out afresh. Suddenly, however, it hushed and all crowded toward the rear end of the hall. There was a quick grinding of feet upon the floor, a heaving of straining bodies, a growling of curses between tight-shut teeth. In the centre of the crowd, his face smeared with blood, fighting viciously, was Martin Kelly. With the full, swinging strength of their arms Nolan and Ferguson were battering at him and all who sought to interfere; upon the outskirts of the crowd the elder Kelly, white-faced, blue-lipped, and gasping, desperately sought to break through to the aid of his son.
“He’s down!” shouted a voice.
“Let him up!” protested a second.
“Give him the leather!” advised still another.
Larry and McGonagle and some others fought their way through the press and tore Nolan and Ferguson away.
A half hour later a patrol wagon dashed away from the hall toward the nearest hospital bearing the bleeding, broken form of young Kelly. Upon the steps stood his assailants in the custody of two policemen, and with their friends gathered about them.
“Don’t make no kick,” said Larry. “The cops game is too strong for youse. Go ahead with ’em.”
“Make no resistance,” advised O’Connor. “I’ll try if they’ll take bail for yez in the mornin’.”