'll
go back to my shop and dress for the occasion, then I'll drift into
Sheehan's just as natural as you please and see what's to be seen."

CHAPTER VIII

SCANLON MAKES A NEW ACQUAINTANCE

"Duke" Sheehan's place was on Claridge Street, near to a prominent
avenue. It glittered hideously with gold-leafed signs; canopies of
flagrantly stained glass hung over each door and window. At the entrance
the thick breath of the place met one like a wall--it smelled heavily of
dregs, both of drink and humanity. The walls shone with mirrors; the
brilliant lights were reflected on the polished bar. The floor was
closely set with colored tile; and upon this the Duke's patrons spat
freely, and spilled the foam from their beer.

Bat Scanlon, in a rough but well-fitting suit of clothes, and a cloth
cap pulled down over his head, lounged at the bar and took in the place
and its possibilities.

"It's the kind of a dump much sought after by the youth from the rural
sections when he wants to see life," commented the big man, mentally.
"There is one thing to be said for this choice, and that is: he won't
have to go far to be trimmed; there's a helping hand on every side."

A hollow-chested man who stood, with whistling breath, next to Scanlon,
now said:

"What'll you have, bo? I'm doing this."

Bat looked apologetic.

"Excuse me," he said. "I'm on the wagon and holding tight. Booze ain't
good for a game like I'm playing."

The hollow-chested man laughed, wanly.

"I don't know your game," said he, "but maybe you're right at that. It
beats the dickens how things break, for if it wasn't for the souse, I'd
'a' croaked long ago." He nodded to the barkeeper, who supplied him with
a dirty looking bottle and a wet glass. "Have a cigar?" he asked Bat.

"Sure," responded Bat, agreeably. "There's no rule against that."

He lighted the cigar, which burned badly and threw out a yellowish
smoke. The hollow-chested man saw the disfavor in Bat's look, and
grinned.

"Burns like a salad, don't it? I never smoke myself. I've got a cough,
and the doc's against it."

As though to prove his statement he coughed persistently for a full
minute; then with a breath whistling thinly in his throat, he poured the
strong liquor through it.

"Yes, sir," gasped he, holding to the bar with weak hands, "if it wasn't
for the old stuff I'd passed in my last check before now. It keeps me
going. Great goods!" Then with a look of commiseration at Bat, h