“What sort of a man is Dennis Moriarty?” he asked of him.

“A fine young fellow, supporting his mother and his younger brothers.”

“Why is Justice Gallagher so down on him?”

The policeman looked about a moment.  “It’s politics, sir, and he’s had orders.”

“From whom?”

“That’s more than we know.  There was a row last spring in the primary, and we’ve had orders since then to lay for him.”

Peter stood and thought for a moment.  “What saloon-keeper round here has the biggest pull?” he asked.

“It’s all of them, mostly, but Blunkers is a big man.”

“Thank you,” said Peter.  He stood in the street thinking a little.  Then he walked a couple of blocks and went into Blunkers’s great gin palace.

“I want to see the proprietor,” he said.

“Dat’s me,” said a man who was reading a paper behind the bar.

“Do you know Justice Gallagher?”

“Do I?  Well, I guess,” said the man.

“Will you do me the favor to go with me to his court, and get him to remit Dennis Moriarty’s fine?”

“Will I?  No.  I will not.  Der’s too many saloons, and one less will be bully.”

“In that case,” said Peter quietly, “I suppose you won’t mind my closing yours up?”

“Wot der yer mean?” angrily inquired the man.

“If it comes to closing saloons, two can play at that game.”

“Who is yer, anyway?” The man came out from behind the bar, squaring his shoulders in an ugly manner.

“My name’s Stirling.  Peter Stirling.”

The man looked at him with interest.  “How’ll yer close my place?”

“Get evidence against you, and prosecute you.”

“Dat ain’t de way.”

“It will be my way.”

“Wot yer got against me?”

“Nothing.  But I intend to see Moriarty have fair play.  You want to fight on the square too.  You’re not a man to hit a fellow in the dark.”

Peter was not flattering the man.  He had measured him and was telling him the result of that measure.  He told it, too, in a way that made the other man realize the opinion behind the words.

“Come on,” said Blunkers, good-naturedly.

They went over to the court, and a whispered colloquy took place between the justice and the bartender.

“That’s all right, Mr. Stirling,” presently said the judge.  “Clerk, strike Dennis Moriarty’s fine off the list.”

“Thank you,” said Peter to the saloon-keeper.  “If I can ever do a turn for you, let me know it.”

“Dat’s hunky,” said the man, and they parted.

Peter went out and walked into the region of the National Milk Company, but this time he went to the brewery.  He found Mr. Bohlmann, and told him the story, asking his advice at the end.

“Dondt you vool von minute mit dod Edelheim.  I dells you vot I do.  I harf choost a blace vacant down in Zender Streed, and your frient he shall it haf.”