Donnegan turned in under the sign.

It was one big room. The bar stretched completely around two sides of
it. The floor was dirt, but packed to the hardness of wood. The low roof
was supported by a scattering of wooden pillars, and across the floor
the gaming tables were spread. At that vast bar not ten men were
drinking now; at the crowding tables there were not half a dozen
players; yet behind the bar stood a dozen tenders ready to meet the
evening rush from the mines. And at the tables waited an equal number of
the professional gamblers of the house.

From the door Donnegan observed these things with one sweeping glance,
and then proceeded to transform himself. One jerk at the visor of his
cap brought it down over his eyes and covered his face with shadow; a
single shrug bunched the ragged coat high around his shoulders, and the
shoulders themselves he allowed to drop forward. With his hands in his
pockets he glided slowly across the room toward the bar, for all the
world a picture of the guttersnipe who had been kicked from pillar to
post until self-respect is dead in him. And pausing in his advance, he
leaned against one of the pillars and looked hungrily toward the bar.

He was immediately hailed from behind the bar with: "Hey, you. No tramps
in here. Pay and stay in Lebrun's!"

The command brought an immediate protest. A big fellow stepped from the
bar, his sombrero pushed to the back of his head, his shirt sleeves
rolled to the elbow away from vast hairy forearms. One of his long arms
swept out and brought Donnegan to the bar.