"Yes, damn it," said Cook. "Give me a drink for good luck."

As the bar-keeper uttered the name of Cook a quick, but hardly
perceptible glance of intelligence passed between Barney and the tramp.

Cook hastily swallowed his whisky, rushed back to the poker table with a
handful of five dollar bills, and quiet reigned over the place. The bar-
keeper, who spied a possible good customer in the tramp, had entered
into a little conversation at the end of the counter, on which the tramp
leaned, the embodiment of solid comfort, puffing his cigar vigorously,
or allowing it to burn itself out in little rings of smoke.

"You're a stranger to these parts?"

With an expressive wink, the tramp replied:

"Not so much as ye think, I've spint many a noight around here."

"Night hawk, eh? an' I took you for a man-trailer."

"I've had the spalpeens after myself afore now," spoke the tramp, in a
low, confidential whisper.

"You keep yourself devilish low, then, for I know all the lads, and it's
the first time I've clapped these two eyes on you."

"Do ye think I mane to let the fly cops put their darbies on me, that I
should be nosin' around in the broad day?"

"You're too fly for them, I see," said the bar-keeper, with a sagacious