Ungerich was gratified. He was having a struggle in his own ward, where a rival by the name of Glover appeared to be pouring out money like water. He would require considerably more money than usual to win. It was the same with Duvanicki.
McKenty finally parted with his lieutenants—more feelingly with Kerrigan and Tiernan than he had ever done before. He did not wholly trust these two, and he could not exactly admire them and their methods, which were the roughest of all, but they were useful.
“I’m glad to learn,” he said, at parting, “that things are looking all right with you, Pat, and you, Mike,” nodding to each in turn. “We’re going to need the most we can get out of everybody. I depend on you two to make a fine showing—the best of any. The rest of us will not forget it when the plums are being handed around afterward.”
“Oh, you can depend on me to do the best I can always,” commented Mr. Kerrigan, sympathetically. “It’s a tough year, but we haven’t failed yet.”
“And me, Chief! That goes for me,” observed Mr. Tiernan, raucously. “I guess I can do as well as I have.”
“Good for you, Mike!” soothed McKenty, laying a gentle hand on his shoulder. “And you, too, Kerrigan. Yours are the key wards, and we understand that. I’ve always been sorry that the leaders couldn’t agree on you two for something better than councilmen; but next time there won’t be any doubt of it, if I have any influence then.” He went in and closed the door. Outside a cool October wind was whipping dead leaves and weed stalks along the pavements. Neither Tiernan nor Kerrigan spoke, though they had come away together, until they were two hundred feet down the avenue toward Van Buren.
“Some talk, that, eh?” commented Mr. Tiernan, eying Mr. Kerrigan in the flare of a passing gas-lamp.
“Sure. That’s the stuff they always hand out when they’re up against it. Pretty kind words, eh?”
“And after ten years of about the roughest work that’s done, eh? It’s about time, what? Say, it’s a wonder he didn’t think of that last June when the convention was in session.
“Tush! Mikey,” smiled Mr. Kerrigan, grimly. “You’re a bad little boy. You want your pie too soon. Wait another two or four or six years, like Paddy Kerrigan and the others.”