He confessed himself an outcast, and his eyes from
under the lowered rim of his hat began to glance guiltily,
wearing the criminal expression that comes with certain
convictions.
Patsy Tulligan was not as wise as seven owls, but
his courage could throw a shadow as long as the steeple
of a cathedral. There were men on Cherry Street
who had whipped him five times, but they all knew that
Patsy would be as ready for the sixth time as if nothing
had happened.
Once he and two friends had been away up on Eighth
Avenue, far out of their country, and upon their return
journey that evening they stopped frequently in saloons
until they were as independent of their surroundings
as eagles, and cared much less about thirty days on
Blackwell’s.
On Lower Sixth Avenue they paused in a saloon where
there was a good deal of lamp-glare and polished wood
to be seen from the outside, and within, the mellow
light shone on much furbished brass and more polished
wood. It was a better saloon than they were in
the habit of seeing, but they did not mind it.
They sat down at one of the little tables that were
in a row parallel to the bar and ordered beer.
They blinked stolidly at the decorations, the bartender,
and the other customers. When anything transpired
they discussed it with dazzling frankness, and what
they said of it was as free as air to the other people
in the place.
At midnight there were few people in the saloon.
Patsy and his friends still sat drinking. Two
well-dressed men were at another table, smoking cigars
slowly and swinging back in their chairs. They
occupied themselves with themselves in the usual manner,
never betraying by a wink of an eyelid that they knew
that other folk existed. At another table directly
behind Patsy and his companions was a slim little Cuban,
with miraculously small feet and hands, and with a
youthful touch of down upon his lip. As he lifted
his cigarette from time to time his little finger
was bended in dainty fashion, and there was a green
flash when a huge emerald ring caught the light.
The bartender came often with his little brass tray.
Occasionally Patsy and his two friends quarrelled.
Once this little Cuban happened to make some slight
noise and Patsy turned his head to observe him.
Then Patsy made a careless and rather loud comment
to his two friends. He used a word which is no
more than passing the time of day down in Cherry Street,
but to the Cuban it was a dagger-point. There
was a harsh scraping sound as a chair was pushed swiftly
back.
The little Cuban was upon his feet. His eyes
were shining with a rage that flashed there like sparks
as he glared at Patsy. His olive face had turned
a shade of grey from his anger. Withal his chest
was thrust out in portentous dignity, and his hand,
still grasping his wine-glass, was cool and steady,
the little finger still bended, the great emerald
gleaming upon it. The others, motionless, stared
at him.
