On a corner a glass-fronted building shed a yellow glare upon the pavements. The open mouth of a saloon called seductively to passengers to enter and annihilate sorrow or create rage.  
The interior of the place was papered in olive and bronze tints of imitation leather. A shining bar of counterfeit massiveness extended down the side of the room. Behind it a great mahogany-appearing sideboard reached the ceiling. Upon its shelves rested pyramids of shimmering glasses that were never disturbed. Mirrors set in the face of the sideboard multiplied them. Lemons, oranges and paper napkins, arranged with mathematical precision, sat among the glasses. Many-hued decanters of liquor perched at regular intervals on the lower shelves. A nickel-plated cash register occupied a position in the exact centre of the general effect. The elementary senses of it all seemed to be opulence and geometrical accuracy.
 
Across from the bar a smaller counter held a collection of plates upon which swarmed frayed fragments of crackers, slices of boiled ham, dishevelled bits of cheese, and pickles swimming in vinegar. An odor of grasping, begrimed hands and munching mouths pervaded.
 
Pete, in a white jacket, was behind the bar bending expectantly toward a quiet stranger. "A beeh," said the man. Pete drew a foam-topped glassful and set it dripping upon the bar.
 
At this moment the light bamboo doors at the entrance swung open and crashed against the siding. Jimmie and a companion entered. They swaggered unsteadily but belligerently toward the bar and looked at Pete with bleared and blinking eyes.
 
"Gin," said Jimmie.
 
"Gin," said the companion.
 
Pete slid a bottle and two glasses along the bar. He bended his head sideways as he assiduously polished away with a napkin at the gleaming wood. He had a look of watchfulness upon his features.
 
Jimmie and his companion kept their eyes upon the bartender and conversed loudly in tones of contempt.
 
"He's a dindy masher, ain't he, by Gawd?" laughed Jimmie.
 
"Oh, hell, yes," said the companion, sneering widely. "He's great, he is. Git onto deh mug on deh blokie. Dat's enough to make a feller turn hand-springs in 'is sleep."
 
The quiet stranger moved himself and his glass a trifle further away and maintained an attitude of oblivion.
 
"Gee! ain't he hot stuff!"
 
"Git onto his shape! Great Gawd!"
 
"Hey," cried Jimmie, in tones of command. Pete came along slowly, with a sullen dropping of the under lip.
 
"Well," he growled, "what's eatin' yehs?"
 
"Gin," said Jimmie.
 
"Gin," said the companion.
 
As Pete confronted them with the bottle and the glasses, they laughed in his face. Jimmie's companion, evidently overcome with merriment, pointed a grimy forefinger in Pete's direction.
 
"Say, Jimmie," demanded he, "what deh hell is dat behind deh bar?"
 
"Damned if I knows," replied Jimmie. They laughed loudly. Pete put down a bottle with a bang and turned a formidable face toward them. He disclosed his teeth and his shoulders heaved restlessly.
 
"You fellers can't guy me," he said. "Drink yer stuff an' git out an' don' make no trouble."
 
Instantly the laughter faded from the faces of the two men and expressions of offended dignity immediately came.
 
"Who deh hell has said anyt'ing teh you," cried they in the same breath.
 
The quiet stranger looked at the door calculatingly.
 
"Ah, come off," said Pete to the two men. "Don't pick me up for no jay. Drink yer rum an' git out an' don' make no trouble."
 
"Oh, deh hell," airily cried Jimmie.
 
"Oh, deh hell," airily repeated his companion.
 
"We goes when we git ready! See!" continued Jimmie.
 
"Well," said Pete in a threatening voice, "don' make no trouble."
 
Jimmie suddenly leaned forward with his head on one side. He snarled like a wild animal.
 
"Well, what if we does? See?" said he.
 
Dark blood flushed into Pete's face, and he shot a lurid glance at Jimmie.
 
"Well, den we'll see whose deh bes' man, you or me," he said.
 
The quiet stranger moved modestly toward the door.
 
Jimmie began to swell with valor.
 
"Don' pick me up fer no tenderfoot. When yeh tackles me yeh tackles one of deh bes' men in deh city. See? I'm a scrapper, I am. Ain't dat right, Billie?"
 
"Sure, Mike," responded his companion in tones of conviction.
 
"Oh, hell," said Pete, easily. "Go fall on yerself."
 
The two men again began to laugh.
 
"What deh hell is dat talkin'?" cried the companion.
 
"Damned if I knows," replied Jimmie with exaggerated contempt.
 
Pete made a furious gesture. "Git outa here now, an' don' make no trouble. See? Youse fellers er lookin' fer a scrap an' it's damn likely yeh'll fin' one if yeh keeps on shootin' off yer mout's. I know yehs! See? I kin lick better men dan yehs ever saw in yer lifes. Dat's right! See? Don' pick me up fer no stuff er yeh might be jolted out in deh street before yeh knows where yeh is. When I comes from behind dis bar, I t'rows yehs bote inteh deh street............