“That might be right,” agreed Larry; “but I never piked off one that was out o’ breath through handin’ out money. His daughter belongs to a flower mission, maybe, and if she t’ought of it she might send the sick man a bunch of hyacinths done up in a waxed paper; but she’d stop the kids from cryin’ quicker if she trotted out a beef stew done up in a tin kettle, an’ that’s no joke. Say, as Chip Nolan ’ed say: It’s no wonder the coons are all whistlin’ ‘Lemme take me clothes back home.’” Mason managed to head him off at this point and began an earnest plea for his support; but Larry would not bind himself to the support of anyone at that time. “I’m leary on makin’ promises,” said the latter, as Mason, at length, arose to depart; “t’ings’ll be dead ripe by the night o’ the primaries; so after that I kin talk to youse.” The bell had rung a few moments before, without their noticing it; and now Mrs. Coogan opened the sitting room door, saying: “Sure, here is Mr. McQuirk, as large as life.” “Murphy,” said the visitor, as he stepped into the room, “I hope I didn’t interrupt ye? I can wait if you’re busy.” It was Tom McQuirk, the boss of the ward, a big-bodied, pleasant-faced man, well-dressed and of assured manner. “Hello,” said Larry, “glad to see ye, Tom. Sit down.” McQuirk glanced toward Mason and a smile of recognition crossed his face. “Mr. Mason, how d’ye do!” exclaimed he, reaching out his hand. Mason shook hands with him without enthusiasm. He had sat too long at the feet of the sages of the Civic Club not to believe that this man and his kind were the very bacillus of corruption. He had met him a year or two before at a conference held with a view to allying the Democrats and the reformers in favour of an independent candidate for city treasurer. But McQuirk had been against the fusion--and it had failed. And Mason, after he had taken his departure and walked homeward, admitted to himself, with some bitterness, that McQuirk’s voice, in this ward at least, would very likely be the deciding one in the matter in hand. Chapter X “_Oh! The room was decorated, With the flags of every land, The gents were elevated, Malone he couldn’t stand; Canaries in their cages, With flowers in a tub, Stood on the piano, At Casey’s Social Club._” POPULAR SONG. BELLA NOLAN looked through the half glass door of Riley’s Oyster Café and tapped softly upon the pane. Goose McGonagle stood before Riley’s bar, fork in hand, while Riley, with amazing dexterity, wrenched open oysters and placed them before him on the shell. At the sound of the tapping, McGonagle looked up and Bella beckoned him. “A mash?” smiled Riley. “Ye’ve got another guess,” answered Goose. He laid down his fork and stepped out upon the sidewalk. “Goose,” asked the girl, “have you seen Mart Kelly to-night?” “No; ain’t he up in the club?” “I don’t know. Will you go up and see, please?”