nd the barkeeper eyed him
suspiciously. Hopkins spoke first:

"Is the boss in?"

The barkeeper made a gesture, pointing to the back room.

"May we see him?"

"I s'pose so." And again, with a jerk of the thumb, the back room was
indicated.

The two walked in. It was a small room, meanly furnished, with a square
table in the centre. Sitting by it were three men. Two were drinking
beer--one a small, thin man; the other a red-faced specimen with rotund
outline. The third and biggest was smoking a briarwood pipe. He was a
heavily built man with immense shoulders square jaw, and low, wrinkled
forehead; deep under his bushy eyebrows were two close-set, twinkling
gray eyes, which were turned on the visitors with a hostile stare.

"Is Mr. Michael Shay here?" asked Hopkins.

"I'm Mike Shay," said the smoker, without rising or removing his pipe;
"what do ye want?" There was a sullen defiance in the tone that showed
resentment at the different dress and manner of the strangers.

"We have come to ask for your support for the club we are going to open
in the old house down the street."

"Support nuthin'," was the gracious reply.

Hopkins began to explain that this was not to be a rival show--no drinks
would be sold; the idea was merely to found a place of amusement for the
people. The only effect on the boss was to evoke a contemptuous
"E-r-r-r!" and an injunction, in Chicago vernacular, to get out of that
as soon as they liked--or sooner. And, by way of punctuation, he turned
to expectorate copiously, but with imperfect precision at a box of
sawdust which was littered with cigar stumps. The interview was over--he
wished them to understand that. He turned to his companions.

Hartigan felt that it was his chance now. He began: "See here, now,
Michael Shay; you're an Irishman and I'm an Irishman----"

"Oh, g'wan!" and Shay rose to walk out the back way. As he did so, Jim
noticed fully, for the first time, the huge shoulders, the strong, bowed
legs, the gorilla-like arms; and the changing memory of another day grew
clear and definitely placed. There could be no doubt about it now; this
was bow-legged Mike, the teamster of seven years before.

At once, a different colour was given to Jim's thought and manner; no
longer cautious, respectful, doubtful, he began in his own more
boisterous way, "Say, Mike. I have a different matter to talk about
now."

Mike stopped and stared.

Jim proceeded. "Were you ever at Links, Ontar