llow, after the
first greetings were exchanged. "Let me get things a bit shipshape an'
I'll join you," and with that he gave another strenuous sweep of his
muscular arm along the woodwork. "I want to have things looking trim
before the night services begin. What's your weakness now, Wes?" he
added. "A little hot stuff, eh? I thought so. I knew how that
proposition would strike you. I've got something on hand that'll warm
the cockles of your heart. Got it in a week ago. It's the real thing--it
is. And your friend--the same? Good. Patsy, make three nice hot Irishes.
No, not that bottle--you know the one I mean. J.J. Yes! That's it."

By this time McGowan had completed his arduous labor and joined his
comrades in front of the bar.

"Well, old man," he said, slapping Weston in a friendly manner on the
shoulder, "how is the world treating you, anyhow? Ain't you lost a bit
up here in these diggin's?"

"Oh, I have no kick coming," was the reply. "Mr. McGowan, I want you to
shake hands with my friend, Mr. Handy, of New York."

"Glad to know Mr. Handy. You hail from the big city, eh? I'm a New
Yorker myself--left there some time ago. A good many years have rolled
on since then. I suppose I'd hardly know the place now. Set them over
yonder, Patsy, near the stove. Come, boys, sit down. Just as cheap to
sit as stand, and more comfortable. Well, here's my pious regards, and,
as my old friend, Major Cullinan used to say, 'May the Lord take a
liking to us, but not too soon.' New York, eh?" and McGowan's memory
seemed, at the sound of the name, to wander back to old familiar scenes
of days gone by.

"Yes," said Handy; "hail from there, but I travel about a good deal."

"A traveling man--a drummer, eh?"

"Well, I do play a bit on the drum at times," said Handy, with a smile,
"but I'm only a poor devil of an actor, if I'm anything."

"An actor, and a New Yorker. Shake again. Put it there," as he extended
his hand. Then looking at Handy closely for a moment, he turned to
Weston and said: "Say, Wes, I know this man, though he don't seem to
know me."

"Indeed, Mr. McGowan, you have the best of me."

"Sure," responded McGowan. "Well, here's to our noble selves," and the
trio drained their cups. "An' now, Mr. Handy, to prove my words that I
know you. You used to spout in the old Bowery Theatre? Ah, I thought so.
Knew Bill Whalley? Of course you did. Poor Bill--he's dead. A good
actor, but a better fellow. He was his own worst frie