“All right,” consented McGonagle. He opened the door, “Say Riley,” said he, “just open the rest and have ’em on the bar. I’ll be back in a second.” “Don’t let on to nobody,” cautioned Bella. “Because I wouldn’t be talked about for the world.” The rooms of the Aurora Borealis Club were over Riley’s place of business; the entrance was by a side door and a flight of steps led directly into the parlour. The members were present in force, dressed in their best and, as it was Saturday night, chinking their money in their trousers’ pockets. Larry Murphy and Roddy Ferguson in their shirt sleeves, were engaged in a game of pool, discussing, between shots, the merits of the various candidates for nomination at the coming ward convention. Mr. McCarty sat at the piano endeavouring to pick out a ragtime melody which he had heard at some “free and easy”; and Johnnie Kerrigan was critically examining a portrait of McQuirk, the boss of the ward, a work of art which the boss had lately presented to the club. Other and less distinguished members lounged about the room, indulging in gossip of a sporting character and strong cigars. “I tell ye,” said Ferguson, slipping a ball into the rack, “O’Connor’s got the t’ing cinched if he gets the delegates. He’ll win in a walk!” Murphy chalked the tip of his cue and looked doubtful. “Gartenheim’s dead agin him,” said he, “an’ Gartenheim kin scare up some votes, youse know that. McQuirk’s pullin’ with Kelly this hitch, and he’ll wheel the machine in line. I don’t t’ink O’Connor’ll do; if we want to have a say we must ring in a man what kin hold the push together, see?” “Dum-had, dah; doodle-day!” hummed McCarty, banging away at the keyboard. “How’s that, Kerrigan?” “Nothing like it,” answered Johnnie, “you’re getting worse every minute.” Tom Hogan, son of the policeman, came from an adjoining room. “They’re makin’ up a game,” said he. “Any o’ youse gents want t’ sit in?” Murphy paused with his cue poised. “Not me,” remarked he. “Last Saturday night was my finish; I don’t play no more poker with people what deals from the bottom o’ the deck.” McCarty stopped his piano practice and whirled about on the stool. “This joint’s gittin’ to be a reg’lar hang-out for sharks,” complained he. “We hold a meetin’ to-night, and if Kelly don’t git the razoo why I git out o’ the club, that’s all.” Young Kelly, unnoticed, had followed Hogan into the room. “What’s that!” demanded he. “Speak yer piece, McCarty, don’t talk behind me back.” “Don’t worry; I’ll talk in front o’ yer face when the time comes.” Martin struck the cushion of the pool table with his fist. “I want to hear it right now; what are youse goin’ to put me before the meetin’ for?” “Ah, yer crooked,” said McCarty. “Me crooked! I can lick the guy that says it.” Murphy leaned his cue against the wall. “Ye done me out o’ a five spot by stackin’ the papers,” said he.