"Nope, promised to be home on time for supper."
"Get panned last night!"
"Yep."
The group of men turned to the clock which was ticking high up on the
wall between the smudgy painting of Leda and The Swan and the framed
group photograph of famous pugilists from Paddy Ryan to the present day.
"It's only nineteen past; plenty time for just one more."
Jim Connor compared his watch with the clock and found they tallied.
The grave bartender took the dice and box from behind the cigar counter
and courteously placed them upon the bar.
"Well," bargained Jim, "if it _is_ just one more."
"J.O.M." they chorused, and the dice rolled upon the polished oak.
"What'll it be, gents?"
"Beer."
"Scotch high."
"Bourbon."
"A small beer, Jack."
"Beer."
"Yours, Jim?" prompted the watchful bartender.
"Well--I guess you can give me a cigar this time, Jack."
The practiced bartender, standing by his beer pump, slid the whisky
glasses along the slippery counter with a delicate touch, as a skillful
dealer distributes cards. He set out the red and smoky whiskies, the
charged water, the tumbler, with its cube of ice; drew two glasses of
beer, scraped the top foam into the copper runway, and almost
simultaneously, as if he had four hands, laid three open cigar boxes
before Jim, who selected a dark "Joe Tinker."
"Join us, Jack," invited the loser of the dice game, hospitably waving
his hand. The efficient bartender drew a small half-glass of lithia
for himself. Five feet rested upon the comfortable rail before the
bar, there was the little pause imposed by etiquette, six glasses were
raised to eye-level.
"Here's whatever."
"Happy days."
"S'looking at you," ran the murmur.
"The big fellow!" exclaimed one.