So he lay, perdu, in the high
rear room of a Capulet, reading pink sporting sheets and cursing the
slow paddle wheels of the _Kaiser Wilhelm_.
It was on Thursday evening that Cork's seclusion became intolerable to
him. Never a hart panted for water fountain as he did for the cool touch
of a drifting stein, for the firm security of a foot-rail in the hollow
of his shoe and the quiet, hearty challenges of friendship and repartee
along and across the shining bars. But he must avoid the district where
he was known. The cops were looking for him everywhere, for news was
scarce, and the newspapers were harping again on the failure of the
police to suppress the gangs. If they got him before Corrigan came back,
the big white finger could not be uplifted; it would be too late then.
But Corrigan would be home the next day, so he felt sure there would be
small danger in a little excursion that night among the crass pleasures
that represented life to him.
At half-past twelve McManus stood in a darkish cross-town street looking
up at the name "Rooney's," picked out by incandescent lights against
a signboard over a second-story window. He had heard of the place
as a tough "hang-out"; with its frequenters and its locality he was
unfamiliar.
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