“But all employers are not so unfeeling; some are heard of, now and then, who help their people out of the hard places.”
“That might be right,” agreed Larry; “but I never piked off one that was out o’ breath through handin’ out money. His daughter belongs to a flower mission, maybe, and if she t’ought of it she might send the sick man a bunch of hyacinths done up in a waxed paper; but she’d stop the kids from cryin’ quicker if she trotted out a beef stew done up in a tin kettle, an’ that’s no joke. Say, as Chip Nolan ’ed say: It’s no wonder the coons are all whistlin’ ‘Lemme take me clothes back home.’”
Mason managed to head him off at this point and began an earnest plea for his support; but Larry would not bind himself to the support of anyone at that time.
“I’m leary on makin’ promises,” said the latter, as Mason, at length, arose to depart; “t’ings’ll be dead ripe by the night o’ the primaries; so after that I kin talk to youse.”
The bell had rung a few moments before, without their noticing it; and now Mrs. Coogan opened the sitting room door, saying: “Sure, here is Mr. McQuirk, as large as life.”
“Murphy,” said the visitor, as he stepped into the room, “I hope I didn’t interrupt ye? I can wait if you’re busy.”
It was Tom McQuirk, the boss of the ward, a big-bodied, pleasant-faced man, well-dressed and of assured manner.
“Hello,” said Larry, “glad to see ye, Tom. Sit down.”
McQuirk glanced toward Mason and a smile of recognition crossed his face.
“Mr. Mason, how d’ye do!” exclaimed he, reaching out his hand.