"Let's go now," said Hopkins. "But I'm afraid that this is where you drop out, Mrs. Hartigan."
So they went down to the headquarters of the boss. It was an ordinary Chicago saloon of less than ordinary pretensions. The plate-glass and polished-mahogany era had not yet set in. The barkeeper was packing the ice chest and a couple of "types" were getting their "reg'lar" as the two strangers from another world entered. The build of Hartigan at once suggested plain-clothes policeman, and the barkeeper eyed him suspiciously. Hopkins spoke first:
"Is the boss in?"
The barkeeper made a gesture, pointing to the back room.
"May we see him?"
"I s'pose so." And again, with a jerk of the thumb, the back room was indicated.
The two walked in. It was a small room, meanly furnished, with a square table in the centre. Sitting by it were three men. Two were drinking beer—one a small, thin man; the other a red-faced specimen with rotund outline. The third and biggest was smoking a briarwood pipe. He was a heavily built man with immense shoulders square jaw, and low, wrinkled forehead; deep under his bushy eyebrows were two close-set, twinkling gray eyes, which were turned on the visitors with a hostile stare.
"Is Mr. Michael Shay here?" asked Hopkins.
"I'm Mike Shay," said the smoker, without rising or removing his pipe; "what do ye want?" There was a sullen defiance in the tone that showed resentment at the different dress and manner of the strangers.
"We have come to ask for your support for the club we are going to open in the old house down the street."