"I have no money here, of course," he reminded his companion.
"Don't know as I blame you, guv'nor," the other observed with a grin. "I saw my toughs lay out a guy only the other day for flashing a smaller wad than you'd carry. You know the rules, and I guess I'll ring up the bank to-morrow morning at eleven o'clock. Does that go?"
"You'll find the deposit there," Fischer promised. "You'd better let me know when he's ready to take the job on."
The Irishman walked to the foot of the steps with his visitor.
"Give Joe the double knock on the trapdoor," he directed, "and get out of the saloon as quick as you can. There's a Dago about there keeps our hands full. Got anything with you?"
Fischer nodded. His hand stole out of his overcoat pocket.
"Better give them one if they look like trouble," his host advised. "They've plenty of spunk, but I can tell you they make tracks for their holes if they hear one of those things bark."
"They shall hear it fast enough, if they try to hustle me," Fischer observed grimly.
"You've some pluck," the Irishman declared, as he watched his departing guest ascend the steps. "Sure, this is no place for cowards, anyway. And good night and good luck to you! Jake will do your job slick, if any one could."
Fischer beat his little tattoo upon the trapdoor, crawled through it and underneath the flap in the counter, out into the saloon. He paused for a moment to look around, on his way to the door. The fight was apparently over, for every one was standing at the counter, drinking with a swarthy-faced man whose cheeks were stained with blood. From a distant corner came the sound of groans. The air seemed heavier than ever with foul tobacco smoke. The man at the piano still thrashed out his unmelodious chords. Some women in a corner were pretending to dance. One or two of them looked curiously at Fischer, but he passed out, unchallenged. Even the air of the slum outside seemed pure and fresh after the heated den he had left. He reached the corner of the street in safety and stepped quickly into his car. He threw both windows wide open and murmured an order to the chauffeur. Then he leaned back and closed his eyes for a moment. He was a man not overburdened with imagination, but it seemed to him just then that he would never be able altogether to forget the face of that ghastly, dehumanised creature, crouching like some terrified wild animal in his fetid refuge.