A cyclone of groans, hisses and profanity came whirling out into the night. The execrated one looked at McQuirk; and McQuirk shrugged his shoulders and laughed. A man got between the light and one of the club windows; his body, silhouetted upon the blind, writhed and swayed; his right hand flourished a beer glass above his head, apparently demanding silence. At last his voice was heard. “Gents,” cried he, “we have slammed it into ’em, ain’t that right? We’ve got the t’ing cinched! We don’t want that lobster Kelly, and we’ll sit on the mugs what trys to ring him in. We got a man of our own.” He flourished the glass, seeming to defy contradiction. “We got a man of our own,” repeated he; “and he’s a winner in a walk! Gents, I’ll ask you for t’ree rips for old man McGlory!” The yell that followed split the silence like a knife; the man with the glass vanished from the blind; the piano resumed its measured beat; the triumphant chorus once more began. “Youse just asked me what us people was agoin’ to do,” said Larry. “Well the gang just saved me the trouble o’ tellin’ yez.” “So McGlory will go afore the convention, Murphy?” asked Kelly. “It looks like it,” admitted Larry. Chapter XIX “_We were batting the town, from the sun went down, Till the morning grew grey in the sky; And we heard the cocks crow, as we homeward did go, With our skins full of mellow old rye._” SONGS OF THE CURB. WHEN the two young men pushed open the door leading to the club’s parlour, they found themselves in a vortex of wild enthusiasm. The congregated members, for the most part, were coatless; and with cigars clinched between their teeth they madly gyrated about the room to the tune of: “_Oh Murphy he was paralyzed, McCarty couldn’t see, I was drunk, but Ferguson, Was a damn sight worse than me!_” Danny Casey, his suspenders slipped from his shoulders and his derby hat tipped back upon his head, presided at the piano; McGlory, standing upon the pool table waved his arms like a bandmaster. Mike McCarty appeared to be the only sane person in the place; he stood in the doorway that led to the adjoining room, as self-possessed, as well-dressed as ever, a smile upon his face. Though he was born in an alley and of a woman who took in washing, Mike, in instinct, taste and deportment, was a gentleman. Seeing Larry and McGonagle enter, he beckoned them into the other room and closed the door. “The push is havin’ a good time,” remarked Larry. “That’s a lovely skate McGlory’s got.” “They’re all about half lit up,” returned McCarty; “and they are plumb daffy, too. It’s best to save yer sky-rockets till after the game’s won; ain’t that right?” “We’ll take it from youse,” agreed Larry. “How did youse make out?” asked Mike. “Knocked ’em cold! We both go to the convention, all right.”