out--the gaslight from the bar-room on the edges of their sodden,
distorted faces--giving three shouts and a yell, as they slammed the
door behind them.

He pushed after a party that was just entering. They went at once for
drink to the upper end of the room, where a rowdy crew, with cigars in
their mouths, and liquor in their hands, stood before the bar, in a
knotty wrangle concerning some one who was killed. Where is the keeper?
Oh! there he is, mixing hot brandy punch for two. Here, you, sir, go up
quietly, and tell Mr. Rollins Dr. Renton wants to see him. The waiter
came back presently to say Mr. Rollins would be right along. Twenty-five
minutes past twelve. Oyster trade nearly over. Gaudy-curtained booths on
the left all empty but two. Oyster-openers and waiters--three of them in
all--nearly done for the night, and two of them sparring and scuffling
behind a pile of oysters on the trough, with the colored print of the
great prize fight between Tom Hyer and Yankee Sullivan, in a veneered
frame above them on the wall. Blower up from the fire opposite the bar,
and stewpans and griddles empty and idle on the bench beside it, among
the unwashed bowls and dishes. Oyster trade nearly over. Bar still busy.

Here comes Rollins in his shirt sleeves, with an apron on. Thick-set,
muscular man--frizzled head, low forehead, sharp, black eyes, flabby
face, with a false, greasy smile on it now, oiling over a curious,
stealthy expression of mingled surprise and inquiry, as he sees his
landlord here at this unusual hour.

"Come in here, Mr. Rollins; I want to speak to you."

"Yes, sir. Jim" (to the waiter), "go and tend bar." They sat down in one
of the booths, and lowered the curtain. Dr. Renton, at one side of the
table within, looking at Rollins, sitting leaning on his folded arms, at
the other side.

"Mr. Rollins, I am told the man who was stabbed here last night is dead.
Is that so?"

"Well, he is, Dr. Renton. Died this afternoon."

"Mr. Rollins, this is a serious matter; what are you going to do about
it?"

"Can't help it, sir. Who's a-goin' to touch _me_? Called in a watchman.
Whole mess of 'em had cut. Who knows 'em? Nobody knows 'em. Man that was
stuck never see the fellers as stuck him in all his life till then.
Didn't know which one of 'em did it. Didn't know nothing. Don't now, an'
never will, 'nless he meets 'em in hell. That's all. Feller's dead, an'
who's a-goin' to touch _me_? Can't do it. Ca-n-'t do it."