The men at the table were shoving back their chairs as though about to go. “Foley,” said the saloonkeeper, “stop a bit an’ give an eye till the bar; I want till spake till Martin. Call me iv any wan comes in.” “All right,” said Foley. “On’y hurry up.” Martin had a great, half raw beefsteak before him from which he was hacking bleeding strips; a newspaper was propped against the salt cruet and as he ate Martin read the doings of the sporting world. “Arrah, don’t be botherin’ him!” cried Mrs. Kelly, as her husband entered. “Lave him ate his bit av breakfast in pace. Will ye have another cup av coffee, Martin?” Martin pushed his cup toward her, over the stained table-cloth, in silence; his father sat down and watched him as he split a bake-house biscuit and covered it with butter, and then resumed his attack upon the gory steak. “I want till tell ye somethin’, Martin,” said the father. “No hurry for Foley’s in the barroom.” “Foley!” exclaimed Mrs. Kelly. Martin only stared. “The cash register’ll ring if he meddles wid it,” grinned the saloonkeeper. “Never fear av Foley.” “Divil mend ye if yez are robbed av ivery God’s blissid cint ye have, some day!” cried Mrs. Kelly, putting the steaming coffee before her son. “I’ll go out till him. Sure, I wouldn’t trust that felly wid the value av a glass av porter!” She whisked hurriedly into the barroom, leaving father and son together. “Good riddance,” said her husband--“yez mother talks too much at toimes, Martin; an’ I want till spake till ye privately.” “Gee!” exclaimed the son, surprised; “what’s the caper, eh?” Kelly spoke for a long time leaning across the table; Martin listened, his knife and fork constantly at work. “Iv we knowed where Jimmie wur,” said Kelly, “we cud lave him know av this dirty pace av wurk. Murphy is no frind av his’n nor moine aither!” “Larkin’s easy found,” said Martin. “He’s got a match on at the Crib Club in Boston for nixt Monday night, and he’s trainin’ at a road-house just outside of the city. I kin git the address from somebody and we’ll write him, eh?” “We will, Martin! Go out an’ git a two cint stamp at Mullen’s drug store an’ a sheet av paper, an’ an invelope, as soon as yez are done atin’. It’s our juty till tell Larkin av this, an’ we must do it.” Chapter XVII “_Dull rogues affect the politician’s part, And learn to nod, and smile, and shrug with art._” CONGREVE. IT was the evening of the primaries and the opposing factions were lined up for the battle that would decide who was to be the party’s standard-bearer within the limits of the ward. The workers had made a door-to-door canvass, pleading eloquently with some, making a vague statement of principles to others, hinting at “prospective jobs” to more. A great deal depended upon the person, and the heelers were supposed to have the voters in their precincts gauged to a nicety.