and dents where heavy bottles and
glasses had made their impress under impulse of heavier hands. The
continuous deposit of tobacco smoke had darkened the ceiling, modulating
to a lighter tone on the walls. The place was even gloomier than before,
and immeasurably filthier under the accumulated grime of a dozen years.
Once in their history the battered tables had been recovered, but no one
would have guessed it now. The gritty decks of cards had been often
replaced, but from their appearance they might have been those with
which Tom Blair long ago bartered away his honor.

Time had left its impress also on bartender Mick. A generous sprinkling
of gray was in his hair; the single eye was redder and fiercer, seeming
by its blaze to have consumed the very lashes surrounding it; the cheeks
were sunken, the great jaw and chin prominent from the loss of teeth.
Otherwise Mick was not much changed. The hand which dealt out his wares,
which insisted on their payment to the last nickel, was as steady as of
yore. His words were as few, his control of the reckless and often
drunken frequenters was as perfect. He was the personified spirit of the
place--crafty, designing, relentless.

Bob Hoyt, the foreman, shambled into Mick's lair at the time of day when
the lights were burning and smoking on the circling shelf. He peered
through the haze of tobacco smoke at the patrons already present,
received a word from one and a stare from another, but from none an
invitation to join the circle.

Bob sidled up to the bar where Kennedy was impassively waiting. "Warmer
out," he advanced.

Mick made no comment. "Something?" he suggested.

Bob's colorless eyes blinked involuntarily. "Yes, a bit of rye."

Mick poured a very small drink into a whiskey glass, set it with another
of water before the customer, on a big card tacked upon the wall added a
fresh line to those already succeeding the other's name, and leaned his
elbows once more upon the bar.

Upon the floor of his mouth Bob Hoyt laid a foundation of water, over
this sent down the fiery liquor with a gulp, and followed the retreat
with the last of the water, unconsciously making a wry face.

Kennedy whisked the empty glasses through the doubtful contents of a
convenient pail, and set them dripping upon a perforated shelf. "Found
the horses yet?" he queried, in an undertone.

Bob shifted uncomfortably and searched for a place for his hands, but
finding none he let them hang awkwardl