“That’s where you make your little old mistake,” smiled Mr. Haley. “This is the only fight in town; all the others is cinched; and Mac’ll be on the ground to keep the gang in line.” “An’ tell me, Gratten; d’yez t’ink Kelly will win?” “Ye can search me! McQuirk says yes; but I wouldn’t put me roll on it, at that. It runs t’rough me that there’ll be doin’s this mornin’, and if Jim Kelly wins, it’ll be a mix for yer life. And if he goes under, he’ll fall like a rotten wall!” “I hear the young fellys’ll be contestin’ Tim Daily an’ what’s-his-name that kapes the policy shop. Young Kerrigan do be after tellin’ me that they got the papers by a trick.” Owen was innocence personified; he knew that Haley possessed information that would be of use. “Oh, they’ll contest ’em, all right,” laughed Haley. “Here comes the kickers!” shouted Martin Kelly. “The marks is gotta band, too. Don’t they look gay?” The anti-Kellyites had swept around the corner with their band playing a “cake-walk” march, their flags waving and themselves cheering lustily. O’Connor, the undertaker, had just arrived in one of his own hacks and now shook hands with his friends. “The young fellas,” smiled O’Connor, “bate the divil whin they cut loose. Sure, here they are with the Emmet Band till the fore, ready till nail Kelly’s hide on the back dure. Well, well, an’ so Alex McGlory’ll go afore the convention?” “So I’ve heard,” said one of his friends. “Just to t’ink av ‘McGlory an’ clane streets’ as a campaign cry.” The speaker paused, delighted with the shout that greeted his sally; then he added “Here comes Gartenheim, O’Connor; sure this time a few years ago yezsilf an’ him wur at it, hard enough.” O’Connor smiled patronizingly, and reared his head in his most dignified fashion; Gartenheim, stout, rosy and smiling was advancing toward him through a lane of outstretched hands. “Gartenheim, how are ye?” “O’Connor, I’m glad to see you!” And the ancient foes grasped each other by the hand, while the gaping spectators swore soft oaths of wonder. The band had ceased playing; the marchers were halted in the street and this reconciliation was in plain view. Roddy Ferguson swung his derby hat above his head, shouting: “Gents, t’ree cheers for Gartenheim and O’Connor!” A whirlwind of shrieks swept over the crowd, sustained until the veins of their necks swelled to bursting and their faces turned purple; sticks, hats and flags were tossed wildly in the air. The two gentlemen whose public burial of the hatchet occasioned this outburst, bowed and smiled genially and once more shook hands, which had the effect of renewing the tumult. James Kelly and his supporters gazed glumly on; the delirious display was not pleasant to them. “Bloody wars,” breathed Owen in Haley’s ear, “d’yez see that, Gratten? They’ve made up.” “It looks bad for Kelly,” admitted Mr. Haley; “and he don’t like it for a cent.”