"'Well,'" he mocked. "Mebbe 't will be 'well,' an' then again mebbe 't won't. It all depends on yer dad." "On _dad_!" "Sure! He's Danny O'Flannigan, the boss o' this ward." "But what has that got to do with my dad?" "Aw, come off--as if ye did n't know! It all depends whether he's nailed him or not." "'Nailed him'!" "Sure. If he nails him fur a friend, he gits customers an' picnics an' boo-kays all the time. If he don't--" Bob made a wry face and an expressive gesture. The frown that had been gathering on Jim's brow fled. "Ho!" he laughed. "Don't you worry. Dad always nails folks--never misses hittin' 'em on the head, either," he added, in reckless triumph, confident that there was nothing "dad" could not do. The boy on the grass sat up and stared; then he lay back and gave a hoarse laugh--a long, chuckling laugh that brought the frown back to Jim's face. "Well, what you laughin' at?" demanded Jim sharply. "Oh, gee, gee!--that's too good!" gurgled the boy on the grass, rolling from side to side. "The saint, the sample, the pattern, the feller what treats 'em square, a-sellin' his vote! Oh, gee, gee!" The ground suddenly shook with the impact of two sturdy little feet, and Bob found his throat in the grasp of two strong little hands. "Bob Sullivan, quit yer laughin' an' tell me what you're talkin' about," stormed a shrill treble. "Who's a-sellin' their vote?" Bob squirmed and struggled. "A feller--can't talk--without--breathin'!" he choked. "Well, then,--breathe!" commanded Jim, jerking his companion to a sitting posture and loosening his clasp on his throat. "Now--who's a-sellin' their vote?" "Ye said it yerself, I didn't," snarled Bob sullenly. "Said what?" "That yer dad would nail Danny O'Flannigan, sure." "And is that sellin' his vote?" "What else is it, then?" demanded Bob wrathfully. "He votes as Danny says, an' Danny sends him trade, an'--oh, oh, q-quit it--q-quit it--I say!" choked Bob, breath and speech almost cut off by the furious clutch of Jim's lean little fingers. "I won't quit it; I won't!" stormed Jim, shaking his victim with a force that was as strong as it was sudden. "You know I never meant it that way; an' dad won't sell his vote; he won't--he won't--he won't!" The next instant a wrathful, palpitating Bob lay alone on the grass, while a no less wrathful and palpitating Jim vaulted the fence at a bound and disappeared into the next house. Jim awoke the next morning with a haunting sense that something had happened. In a moment he remembered; and with memory came rage and a defiant up tilting of the chin. As if dad--_dad_ could do this thing! Very possibly--even probably--Handy Mike had long ago gone down before this creature in the checkered trousers and tall hat; but dad--dad was not Handy Mike!