"What's the row with ye? I paid fer the drinks,"
"What are you doin' with a detective's star?" said the bar-keeper,
"Haven't I a right to one; I dunno—finders keepers, losers weepers—I picked the bit of brass up on the road not over an hour ago."
The bar-keeper was not to be pacified by such a story, and in a threatening voice, he asked:
"Are you a man-hunter or not?"
The tramp threw a pitying glance of scorn at the pugilistic whisky-seller, as he replied:
"Be gorra, ye damned fool, do you think that I'd be after givin' myself away like this if I WAS one?"
"In course ye wouldn't," broke in Barney. "Don't be a fool, Jerry, this man is no detective," and Barney fastened the star to the vest which encircled the portly form of the bar-keeper.
"Now ye're one yerself, an' will be after runnin' us all in fer not detectin' enough of the elegant liquor ye handle."
To this the man could make no reply, save a deep, hoarse laugh, and resuming his professional position, was shortly engaged in alleviating the thirst of his patrons.