about doing their marketing; fathers of families, a week's pay in their pockets, stood by in the stores while wives or children tried on new hats or new shoes. But mainly the street was given over to those of both sexes who were in pursuit of pleasure,—young men and girls idling along together, laughing loudly; no need for any one to lack for a companion.
Hot and thirsty, Floyd stepped into one of the numerous saloons. At the rear was a partition with an opening partly screened by a stained drab curtain, and the sign "Wine Room" over it. From within this sanctuary issued much hilarious laughter; Floyd crossed over to the doorway. The place was not for men alone; at the tables there was a sprinkling of gaudy women, and others were coming in through the "Ladies' Entrance" on the farther side. Noisy with unrestrained voices and the thump and rattle of glasses, stale with the smell of spilled liquor and old pipes and low-hanging tobacco smoke, filthy with moist sawdust and cast-away stogies, the room was a scene of squalid gayety.
"Hello!" cried a voice from one of the nearer tables, and Floyd saw Hugh Farrell rise and beckon to him. He smiled and waved a hand in reply, and was turning away when Farrell sprang forward and seized his arm.
"Come and have a drink," said Farrell. With tipsy insistence he clutched Floyd's arm and drew him to the table, at which four men were seated. "Billings, Ryan, Pulaski, Schmidt—here's Mr. Halket—six beers!" He hailed a waiter, and kicked a chair from a neighboring table to Floyd.
Billings, hardly more than a boy, had a weak, silly face; Ryan was a good-natured, freckled young Irishman with a sandy beard; Pulaski had black, scowling brows and a surly mouth, and was plainly the most brutal of the company. Schmidt was stolid, serene, and smiling. The beer was brought. "How!" said Farrell, raising his glass toward Floyd, who bowed and waved to the other four,
