“Some people’s born with the notion that for sharpness they’ve got the rest o’ the world tied hand an’ foot; and they are sharp, in their way—but they don’t weigh much.”—Chip Nolan’s Remarks.
“The cool shades of evening their mantles were spreading,
And Maggie, all smiling, was listening to me,
The moon through the valley her pale light was shedding,
When I won the heart of the rose of Tralee.”
Old Song.
CLANCY was reading the news of the convention in the evening paper behind his counter; the rush was over for the night, and he pulled at his pipe contentedly, for O’Hara had failed to keep his threat, and Clancy fancied that his creditor had thought better of it.
“Sure, Young Murphy is the b’y for thim,” said Clancy, as he finished the account. It was a McQuirk sheet and lauded that gentleman’s action to the skies. Its story of the convention teemed with such phrases as “Magnificent battle against organized greed,” “Opponent of municipal corruption,” “Able friend of the working class,” etc. “But, divil take thim,” continued the grocer, “yez’d t’ink, from this, that McQuirk done it all.”
He adjusted his steel-rimmed glasses and was about to resume his reading when a step sounded upon the floor and a shadow fell across the newspaper; looking up he saw O’Hara.
“Good avenin’,” said the visitor. “I wur passin’ an’ t’ought I’d drop in on yez.”