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 "Damned if I know," said Malachi; "he's all the time in wan shcrape or anither with some o' thim bla'gyaards down there."

The mayor was turning a long blue pencil over and over, end for end, between his white fingers, making a series of monotonous tappings on his desk.

"Can't you wait till after election?" he said at last.

"His time'll be served out befoore that," said Malachi, "an' ph'at good'll a paardon do 'im thin?"

The mayor continued the thoughtful tapping with his long blue pencil.

"Well, Alderman," he said after a while, "I'd rather not issue any pardons before election, if I can help it. These reformers are going to raise hell this spring, sticking their noses into everybody's business, and—"

Malachi's little eyes contracted until their blue twinkle was almost hidden.

"But, Jawn," he said, "so much the more r'ason why ye'll want the Firsht in th' convintion."

"Oh, well," said the mayor, "if it's important—" And he pressed a button under his desk. Before his secretary appeared he added: