Cork McManus and the bookbindery girl conversed absorbedly, with their
elbows on the table. Their glasses of beer were pushed to one side,
scarcely touched, with the foam on them sunken to a thin white scum.
Since the stroke of one the stale pleasures of Rooney's had become
renovated and spiced; not by any addition to the list of distractions,
but because from that moment the sweets became stolen ones. The flattest
glass of beer acquired the tang of illegality; the mildest claret punch
struck a knockout blow at law and order; the harmless and genial company
became outlaws, defying authority and rule. For after the stroke of one
in such places as Rooney's, where neither bed nor board is to be had,
drink may not be set before the thirsty of the city of the four million.
It is the law.
"Say," said Cork McManus, almost covering the table with his eloquent
chest and elbows, "was that dead straight about you workin' in the
bookbindery and livin' at home--and just happenin' in here--and--and
all that spiel you gave me?"
"Sure it was," answered the girl with spirit. "Why, what do you think?
Do you suppose I'd lie to you? Go down to the shop and ask 'em. I handed
it to you on the level.
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