“Dick pulls some weight wit’ the old man,” admitted he; “but he can’t do all that. I tell youse Gartenheim’s too sore on O’Connor to turn in for him. Stick to Murphy’s lay-out; we’ve got the best chance there. When we spring it, take me word for it, the whole shootin’ match’ll stand up on their hind legs.” “Youse might be right; I only hope ye are,” said Jerry. “Anyhow let’s go down the line; we ain’t doin’ no good holdin’ down chairs around here. I want to see old man Hoffer and a lot more guys; they’re friends o’ the old man’s and I want to sling ’em a breeze.” When seven o’clock drew on the division houses were wide open; the special policemen and ward workers were clustered in the doorways and were aghast at the magnitude of the vote called out by the conflicting efforts of Kelly and his opponents; it was as heavy as that of a general election and stood unprecedented in their experience. McQuirk, in a silk hat and with a cigar between his teeth, was going from division to division, in one of McGrath’s hacks; his subordinates worked zealously with the vote, feeling that their future weal depended upon the impression that they made. Clancy came through McGarragles’ Alley and turned down the avenue toward the polling place of his division; his white apron was tucked up about his waist and he carried a ballot fluttering between his fingers. Murphy who stood by the curb, watching things, and sending out his aids to drag voters from their suppers, at once pounced upon the grocer. “Just a second, Clancy!” besought he. A stout man with a red face protested. “Ah, let the man be!” requested he. “The polls’ll be closed in a little while. Go ahead and vote, Clancy!” “Close yer face, will youse? I’m doin’ this.” “An’ yer makin’ a mess of it, too. Youse people’ll split the ticket, and we’ll get it good and hard, like last time.” “I take notice youse have all turned in for de guy what licked youse; youse fellas would cap for McQuirk to beat yer own gran’father.” Murphy was about to unmask his batteries and wither the red-faced man with sarcasm when Clancy interrupted him. “What d’yez want av me?” asked he. “Yer got a pink ticket there. Just open it and paste this sticker over Pete Slattery’s name.” “Divil the bit! Sure, Slattery’s a friend av mine, an’ a customer.” “But, say, he’s for Kelly! Ye ain’t goin’ to help that slob to lick us, are ye?” “For Kelly! Begorry, they niver towld me that. Where’s yez sticker? Divil a boost’ll I give a man that’s for James Kelly.” A deep murmur that swelled into a smothered roar came from the cigar store where the balloting was being held. A dense group of excited, gesticulating workers were gathered about the table; in their midst stood two men, their noses almost together, their faces pale, their voices high-pitched and angry. “Ye don’t vote, see,” declared one. “Ye ain’t got no vote, here, and that goes.” “I’m as good a Democrat as youse,” maintained the other, “you’re a mugwump, ye stiff!”