“Hello, Mal’chi,” he called, smiting the bar with the thick of his fist, “ain’t goin’ home, are you? It’s just the shank of the evening. What’ll you have?” Then, as one who likes to think he has special privileges, he said to the bartender aside: “Give’s a nice little drink of whisky.” Malachi neither moved nor spoke. Brennan felt his coldness and flashed the intelligence to Sullivan. “Just saw Jim Degnan,” he said, grasping the sweating whisky bottle. “You did, did you?” said Malachi, in a challenging tone. “Yes,” said Brennan, determined to be genial. “He tells me you’re goin’ back to Ireland in the spring.” “He does, does he?” again challenged Nolan. “Didn’t you tell ’im?” “If I did, did I tell ’im phat spring?” “Well, I s’posed as a matter of course he meant this spring.” Brennan bent over to measure his drink and to hide some confusion. “And I thought--you know what you said, Mal’chi--I was goin’ to have Mike here call the convention and round up the nomination--” “Th’ hell you was! Th’--hell--you--was!” Malachi’s growing amazement lengthened the pauses between his words. “Why, didn’t you say you’d t’row the nomination to me when you quit?” Brennan’s color deepened to an angry red. “Did ye iver see such narve!” said Malachi, ignoring the question. “Mike’ll call th’ convintion fer soon enough, but whin I’m not a candydate in me own waard, I’ll tell ye mesilf, Willum Brennan.” “Well, don’t get mad about it, Mal’chi,” said Brennan, who was getting mad himself. He shoved the bottle on to Sullivan, and blinked his small eyelids a moment. “Of course, Mal’chi, it’s just as you say.” “Well, now, ye’re talkin’, Willum.” Malachi never could brook anything like interference in his ruling of the First Ward. “Whin I’m done, ye can have th’ nomination, same’s I told ye, but this spring I’m a candydate mesilf, do ye mind that now?” He drew closer to the bar in his softened humor, and now that the question at last had been decided, and in the only way it could have been decided, he suddenly became himself again. “When do you want the convention called for, Mr. Nolan?” asked Sullivan. “Sathurday,” replied Malachi promptly. “Where?” “Oh, same as usual--in the back ind of th’ plaace here.” Malachi jerked his thick thumb toward the rear end of the saloon, where the gloom was deep. “Prim’ries fer Friday.” “All right,” said Sullivan. Then no one spoke for a while. Finally, however, Brennan said, in a hesitating way: “If you’re goin’ back to the council, Mal’chi, what’s the matter with me takin’ the legislative nomination in the district?” “It’s time enough to saay good marnin’ to th’ divil whin ye meet ’im, Willum.” There was silence again, until Brennan said: “Well, I can’t help thinkin’ it’s a fine trip to Ireland you’re losin’.” “’Tis so,” assented Malachi. “Yes,” sighed Brennan. And he saw his ambition pass from him. But presently he was saying in his old, cheery tone: “Ain’t you goin’ to take somethin’?”