the evening, tripped over his foot while carrying a tray to one of the small drinking-rooms, and jarred the foaming "head" over the polished glasses; in short, barely saved himself from arriving headlong with the refreshment. Bill Bastien, the head bartender and manager, came to the door of the bar. His erect, lithe figure was thrown out against a glittering background of glasses and mirrors. He was drying his hands on a clean white towel.
"What the hell—" he said.
"Chairley's been falling over himself in his zeal," replied Kirke.
"Mr. Bastien," said Charley, breathing heavily, "I stumbled over Mr. Kirke's foot which he sticks out that way a-purpose to mortify me."
"That's a dairty lie," observed Kirke, smiling. "He never looks where he's going, and you know it."
Bastien was too busy for argument. His opaque, dark-blue eyes glanced sharply, first at the offending foot, then at the glasses on the tray. With a frown he strode to the door of the drinking-room and looked in. The customers gathered about the table there were not of the fastidious order. They wanted their drinks and wanted them soon. They were rapping impatiently on the table.
"All right, boys," he said cheerily. "Here we are. Charley's lost his way in the crowd. Next time he'll be smarter." He laid his hand heavily on Charley's broad shoulder and steered him into the room. Then he returned briskly to the bar where business was now becoming lively.
A rich smell of ale and spirits filled the air. A sustained flow of men's voices came from all sides, sometimes ebbing to a low drone, sometimes swelling to a vigorous burst of laughter. Night had fallen. The March air was cold, and the heavy, green door was closed after each
