ay's fires, dog-fights, and parades. To-day,
however, fires had been few, dog-fights fewer, and parades so very
scarce that they numbered none at all. Conversation had come to a dead
pause, when Jim, his eyes on the rod of sidewalk visible from where he
sat, called softly:

"Hi, Bob, who's the guy with the plug?"

Bob raised his head. He caught a glimpse of checkered trousers,
tail-coat, and tall hat, then he dropped to the ground with a short
laugh.

"Yes, who is it?" he scoffed. "Don't ye know?"

"Would I be askin' if I did?" demanded Jim.

"Humph!" grunted the other. "Well, you'll know him fast enough one of
these days, sonny, never fear. There don't no one hang out here more'n
a month 'fore he spots 'em."

"'Spots 'em'!"

"Sure! He's Danny O'Flannigan."

"Well?"

Into Bob's face came a look of pitying derision.

"'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