“Sure I t’ought, Squire,” said Clancy, the grocer, who lay back in the barber’s chair, tucked about with towels, “that yez wur goin’ till give Tim a job in the water daypartment.”
“There’s many a slip, Clancy,” quoth his honour, struggling with the gloves. “I’m not the only duck in the pond, ye know; and it’s Tim’s own fault that he ain’t in the department long ago.”
“How’s that?” queried the grocer.
“McQuirk’s against him,” answered Moran.
Mr. Burns looked downhearted; the others nodded sagaciously as though the reason given was all sufficient.
“I almost got down on my knees to him,” went on the magistrate, “but he said no; so what can I do?”
“What’s he sore on Tim for?” asked Goose McGonagle who, in a bright scarlet tie, sat near the wash-stand.
“I wouldn’t vote for O’Connor,” Burns hastened to say. “Sure Gartenheim did me a favour wanst; an’ wud yez have me go back on a friend?”
A murmur went around the room.
“But O’Connor was the reg’lar nominee,” argued Moran, “an’ if it hadn’t been for the push that turned in for Gartenheim, O’Connor ’ud be holdin’ down the office instead of Kelly. McQuirk’s dead leary on split tickets—unless he gives the order—an’ he told ye at the time that he’d remember ye for it.”