"I'll have a schooner of beer," he said.
Michael, catching Scholar's eye, nodded to him, and then to the bar-keeper. "The same for me," he said.
The barman looked along the row and received a series of nods. He glanced at Scholar, elevating his brows, and Scholar inclined his head, and the monster nominal glasses, but really glass jugs with handles, came swift almost as conjuring, one after the other, on to the counter.
"Well, here's looking at ye," said Mike, "and good luck."
"Well, here's good luck," said Michael.
The phrase passed along, and the great jugs were held up and the quaffing began. Mike drank a quarter of his, and then turned his back to the bar, and surveyed the room. Over in a corner a faint disturbance arose, sounds of altercation, somebody telling someone else that he would push his face in. Mike looked into the corner, impassive. He leant forward and dragged a high stool over to the counter.
"Come and sit here beside me, Scholar," he said.
The narrow swing doors opened; a slight draught of air, cooler than the air within, caused them to glance round. A furtive and evil face showed for a moment in the middle of the strip of dark, blue night, and then was withdrawn. Michael looked at Mike to see if he had noticed that observer who came and went. Scholar sat up on the high stool.
"I don't know if you're fond of entering into scraps," said Mike quietly. "But don't you do it. It's a way some of these fellows have. Hearken to 'em now!"
This half-dozen or so of the "Push" of the S.S. Glory applied itself to its beer, and to talk, two by two. It had the air of partitioning itself off from the rest of the house; it was a private party.