The shade of weariness under the mayor's eyes enveloped his brow, although he tried to wipe it out with his palm. Everybody came every day to ask favors.
"Now, Alderman," he said, turning away fretfully, "I know. Please don't ask me to interfere in your fight this spring. I'll promise to keep hands off and leave you alone. Ain't that enough?"
"Who said annything about my fight?" said Malachi. "It's time enough to saay good marnin' to th' divil whin ye meet 'im, Jawn."
The mayor looked a bit relieved, and turned toward Malachi with half a smile.
"Excuse me, Alderman, I supposed, of course—But what can I do for you?" He repeated his formula.
Malachi seated himself, and dangling his hat between his knees, he said:
"They's a laad from my waard in the Bridewell, Jawn, an' he's a mother who's wallopin' a wash-*board be th' daay an' night fer to make a livin'. His name's James McGlone, an' I'm afther a paardon fer 'im."
The mayor scowled. "What's he in for?"
