"Support nuthin'," was the gracious reply.
Hopkins began to explain that this was not to be a rival show—no drinks would be sold; the idea was merely to found a place of amusement for the people. The only effect on the boss was to evoke a contemptuous "E-r-r-r!" and an injunction, in Chicago vernacular, to get out of that as soon as they liked—or sooner. And, by way of punctuation, he turned to expectorate copiously, but with imperfect precision at a box of sawdust which was littered with cigar stumps. The interview was over—he wished them to understand that. He turned to his companions.
Hartigan felt that it was his chance now. He began: "See here, now, Michael Shay; you're an Irishman and I'm an Irishman——"
"Oh, g'wan!" and Shay rose to walk out the back way. As he did so, Jim noticed fully, for the first time, the huge shoulders, the strong, bowed legs, the gorilla-like arms; and the changing memory of another day grew clear and definitely placed. There could be no doubt about it now; this was bow-legged Mike, the teamster of seven years before.
At once, a different colour was given to Jim's thought and manner; no longer cautious, respectful, doubtful, he began in his own more boisterous way, "Say, Mike. I have a different matter to talk about now."
Mike stopped and stared.
Jim proceeded. "Were you ever at Links, Ontario?"
"Maybe I was, an' maybe I wasn't. What's that to you?"
"Well, do you remember licking a young fellow there for jerking the roof log out of the hotel with your masting team of oxen?"
"Bejabers, I do that"; and Mike's eyes twinkled for the first time with a pleasant look.