“Say, are youse goin’ to t’row me down for that—”
“Don’t call him names! He’s run the pair o’ looms next to mine for three years now, and he’s always acted like a perfect gentleman. You come to see me steady, Mr. Brennen, but I won’t play Rox for a lobster even for you.” And with this she once more started away fumbling in her purse and saying over her shoulder: “Don’t forget to ask Danny for the ticket.”
Murphy had gone to the street door to speak to a friend while the above scene was enacting; now he came hurrying back to the “gate” excitedly.
“McGonagle,” exclaimed he, “here comes Nobby Foley and Tim Daily wit’ a couple o’ skirts. I’ll bet we’ll have the ‘chain gang’ here!”
“Gee,” murmured Goose. “If they cut loose this won’t be a ball, it’ll be a scrappin’ match. Say d’youse t’ink four cops is enough? Hadn’t we better git the loot to send two more?”
Murphy looked at him, disdainfully.
“We ain’t a lot o’ kids, are we?” inquired he. “I might be dead wrong but I t’ink the push kin hold their own with any of ’em. There’s only one t’ing to do; as soon as they git gay, go in an’ slam ’em; ain’t that right?”
Foley was short and square-jawed; Daily was big and brawny; and both carried themselves with much aggressiveness, swaggering into the hall, their convoys on their arms, with the air of men whose deeds were epic in the ward.
“That’s a swell one wit’ Foley,” whispered a voice. “Who is she, Brennen?”
“An old party rammer,” answered Brennen; “an’ she’s the star pivoter of Whalen’s Academy. Her an’ Bat Mahoney won the prize waltz at the Emmet Band’s picnic, Decoration Day.”