“But O’Connor was the reg’lar nominee,” argued Moran, “an’ if it hadn’t been for the push that turned in for Gartenheim, O’Connor ’ud be holdin’ down the office instead of Kelly. McQuirk’s dead leary on split tickets--unless he gives the order--an’ he told ye at the time that he’d remember ye for it.” “He had little till do,” mumbled Clancy. Moran laughed. “What the boss don’t know about practical politics ain’t worth knowin’,” said he. “An’ it’s the little things what holds the party in line. So stick to McQuirk an’ McQuirk’ll stick to you.” He had succeeded with his gloves by this time and was about to depart. “If I can do anything for you, Tim,” he added, “I’ll do it. But when Mac says no, why he generally means it. Good night, everybody.” “Niver talk till me av politicians,” said Clancy; “be dad they’re all tarred wid wan stick. An’ divil a better are they across the say; sure, I wur radin’ in the _Irish World_ that Redmond do be at his tricks wanst more.” “D’yez say so,” exclaimed Burns; “ah, but the owld dart is in a bad way betune thim all.” “Redmond do be after firin’ off some illigant spaches,” put in Malachi O’Hara, from behind a newspaper, “an’ he’s an able lad, so he is. Didn’t he take up for Parnell whin--” “Parnell!” Clancy snorted his disgust so violently as to endanger his safety from the barber’s razor. “Don’t talk till me av that felly.” “Yez wur a Parnell man yezself wanst, Clancy,” said Burns, with an elaborate wink at the others. “Sure, I see the chromo av him that came with the _Freeman’s Journal_ nailed up on yez wall overight the kitchen dure.” “An’ divil a long it stayed out av the stove after he wur found out,” said the grocer stoutly. “Filled up, Schwartz?” cried Jerry McGlory, poking his head in at the doorway. “Gome in, Mr. McGlory; dere’s nod many aheat of you.” Jerry entered, greeted his acquaintances, and hung up his coat. “Goin’ to the wake?” asked he of O’Hara. “’Twuld be but daysint fer me till pay my rayspects till the family. Are yez goin’ yezself?” “Sure! There’ll be a mob there, though.” Then turning to the youth in the scarlet tie he inquired: “Well, what d’ye know, McGonagle?” Mr. McGonagle had just finished a graphic description, for the benefit of his right-hand neighbour, of the last performance of a “brass back” cock, the victorious veteran of a score of mains, and answered affably: “Nothin’ much. On’y the selectman’s the sorest mug ye ever put yer lamps on. If ye’d touch him wit’ a wet finger, he’d sizzle.” “Arrah, yer right, Goose,” confirmed Burns. “I stopped intill his place for a sup av drink as I wur comin’ by, an’ from the talk av him yez’d t’ink young Murphy had put his hand intill his money drawer.” “Divil mend him!” said Clancy. “I heard,” said McGlory, “that Mary Carroll wasn’t left a cent.” “D’ye tell me so?” O’Hara was greatly interested. “Glory be!” ejaculated Burns; “an’ the nace so good till him.” “Sure, Mary wurn’t his nace,” said Clancy.