Michael nodded his head again to Scholar, jogged him with an elbow.
"See?" said he. "See? There's nothing on here between the people behind the bar and the people in front, same as in some of them."
"I see," said Scholar.
Hardly had the last of these ugly fellows departed than the Inquisitive One plucked his elbow and drew him aside, and Scholar was amazed to notice that his utterance was thick as he whispered, a blend of ingratiation and intimidation in his face: "How much are you getting for the trip over?"
"Look here—none of that whispering!" said Mike, the heavy, ready-to-smite look, with which he had watched the departure of the dubious throng, still on his face. "If you fellows have anything to say, say it. Here's a schooner of beer untouched, too!"
Scholar turned about.
"My inside isn't big enough to take another glass of that size," he declared.
"Here's looking at you, then!" said Michael, and, lifting the glass jug, he opened his throat, and holding it rigid as if it were a filler, poured the contents down.
"There y'are!" said Mike. "There y'are! That's a gintleman! That's a gintleman!" And there was a faint thickness in his speech too, as though his tongue was spongy. "I was niver mixed up with such a push in me life—what with whisperin' together and drinking another man's beer."
Cockney broke out, in a jeering voice, eyeing the Inquisitive One and Scholar: "How much are you getting for the trip? Tell me, and see if yer getting something mor'n me."