“The Mozart Sangerbund give him an invitation to their last meetin’,” put in McCarty, “and he wanted Kerrigan to write him a speech. He’s makin’ a play for the German vote.”
“I heard in City Hall, yesterday,” said Kerrigan, “that the Mayor offered him the indorsement of the other side again, if he could split our ticket. McQuirk was at the pow-wow and somebody slipped him a bunch of money. But say! if that’s right he’ll have a warm time delivering the goods.”
“When is the delegate election, Murphy?” inquired McGlory.
“About a month after our ball,” answered Larry.
“Talkin’ about the ball,” remarked McCarty: “we won’t have Larkin to lead the march for us this time, eh?”
“There’s a guy what knows the figures,” commented McGlory. “How’s he doin’ now?”
“He’s doin’ ’em all; an’ right off the reel too,” said Murphy, who was a pupil of Jimmie’s in the manly art, and had watched his progress, through the newspapers, with interest. “He’s done stunts wit’ the best o’ them, since he left town, and they kin hardly put a glove on him. He knocked the Pohoket Cyclone dead to the world in the second minute o’ the fifth round last Monday night at New Orleans. Larkin’s a comer, le’me tell youse.”
McGlory had pulled aside one of the window blinds and was gazing down into the street.
“Say!” exclaimed he suddenly, “it’s a bundle o’ skirts what sent McGonagle up after Kelly.” He regarded the two figures standing near the curb below under the glare of the gas light, intently. “It looks,” said he, “like Nolan’s sister.”
“Cheese it!” whispered Murphy. But Roddy Ferguson had caught the words; and he stood with his elbow resting on the piano top, chewing at the end of his cigar, and looking with clouded brow into the fire. It was an open secret that Bella had thrown him over for Martin Kelly; Roddy was too quiet and steady to suit her light temperament, he lacked Martin’s swagger and bluster, qualities which Bella liked, for she was one of those women who mistake excess for a proof of spirit and dissolute living for a mark of manhood.