“It was a cinch,” put in Goose. “There’s about forty o’ McGlory’s drivers boardin’ in my division, and when the old man cut ’em loose, the Kelly push wilted like wet rags.” “Then we got ’em,” declared Mike, exultantly. “I knowed youse’d win out; that gives us two more.” He nodded toward a sheet of foolscap upon the table, covered with names and figures. “Kerrigan made that,” added he. “It’s all right, I guess.” Larry and McGonagle bent over the paper attentively; the uproar in the other room continued; but the tune was changed; the dancing had ceased and the voices of the overjoyed members were raised in the ditty: “_I’m goin’ down to Kerrigan’s, On purpose to get tight, An’ when I get home again, There’s goin’ to be a fight, I’ll smash up all the furniture, And all the dishes, too, Upset the stove when I go in, Is the first t’ing I will do._” The reasons for these acts of domestic vandalism were not inquired into by Murphy or McGonagle; each had his finger upon a name and they were looking at each other with something like dismay. “Tim Daily,” Larry straightened up and fairly glared. “And Levitsky,” moaned Goose. “Elected by our people, too! Oh, I kin see our finish, right here.” “Hully Gee!” murmured McCarty, “is them people been worked in? Then they’re got the bulge.” There ensued a silence as sulphurous as any profanity ever conceived by mortal man. Then McGonagle spoke. “Well,” demanded he, of Larry, “what next?” “They’ve put us up against it, hard,” mourned Larry. “Got anyt’ing to say Murphy?” Larry glowered at them in bovine fury. “I went into this mix,” declared he, his right hand beating upon his left, “to win! And we’re goin’ to win if we have to tear up the ward be the roots! McQuirk’s played a foxy game, and worked some of our people for rank suckers, see? But we’ll kick the props from under him and do him brown, d’ye hear? We’ll do him brown!” “How?” ventured McGonagle. “How? I don’t care a damn how we do it! We ain’t a’goin’ to let him play us for good t’ings, are we?” “Let’s go see Daily,” suggested Goose. McCarty looked at his watch. “It only wants a couple o’ minutes o’ one,” said he, “Daily’s snorin’ t’ beat the band by this time.” “Not on yer life! He’s on the night shift this week,” said Larry. “We kin see him, all right. Come on, Goose.” The two repassed through the parlour, almost unnoticed in the excitement, and down the stairs to the street. They headed eastward over Girard Avenue, their objective point being one of the iron mills that line the river front in Kensington.