“He had little till do,” mumbled Clancy.
Moran laughed. “What the boss don’t know about practical politics ain’t worth knowin’,” said he. “An’ it’s the little things what holds the party in line. So stick to McQuirk an’ McQuirk’ll stick to you.” He had succeeded with his gloves by this time and was about to depart. “If I can do anything for you, Tim,” he added, “I’ll do it. But when Mac says no, why he generally means it. Good night, everybody.”
“Niver talk till me av politicians,” said Clancy; “be dad they’re all tarred wid wan stick. An’ divil a better are they across the say; sure, I wur radin’ in the Irish World that Redmond do be at his tricks wanst more.”
“D’yez say so,” exclaimed Burns; “ah, but the owld dart is in a bad way betune thim all.”
“Redmond do be after firin’ off some illigant spaches,” put in Malachi O’Hara, from behind a newspaper, “an’ he’s an able lad, so he is. Didn’t he take up for Parnell whin—”
“Parnell!” Clancy snorted his disgust so violently as to endanger his safety from the barber’s razor. “Don’t talk till me av that felly.”
“Yez wur a Parnell man yezself wanst, Clancy,” said Burns, with an elaborate wink at the others. “Sure, I see the chromo av him that came with the Freeman’s Journal nailed up on yez wall overight the kitchen dure.”
“An’ divil a long it stayed out av the stove after he wur found out,” said the grocer stoutly.
“Filled up, Schwartz?” cried Jerry McGlory, poking his head in at the doorway.
“Gome in, Mr. McGlory; dere’s nod many aheat of you.”