“There’s porter,” said Mary Ellen, “and there’s minerals, and there’s ginger cordial.”
“If I’m here for a week,” said Mr. Billing, “I’ll put you wise in the matter of making cocktails. A Saratoga cocktail is a drink——”
“Is it whisky I’ll bring you now?” said Mary Ellen.
She was a girl of sense and wisdom. She was no more inclined to listen to Mr. Billing’s panegyric of the Saratoga cocktail than to Thady Gallagher’s patriotic denunciation of the flunkeys of the rent office. Without waiting for an answer she went away and brought Mr. Billing the usual quantity of Irish whisky in the bottom of a tumbler with a bottle of soda water.
Doyle and Thady Gallagher, left alone in the street, stared at each other in silence. It was Doyle who spoke first:
“What you want, Thady,” he said, “is a drop of something to drink, to revive the courage in you.”
“What sort of a fellow is that at all?” said Thady hoarsely.
“A pint of porter, now,” said Doyle, “or a drop of spirits. You want it this minute, and you’ll want it more before, you’re through with the job that you have on hand.”
He led the way into the bar and provided Thady with a satisfying draught. Thady emptied the tumbler without drawing breath. Then he took his pipe from his pocket and lit it.
“Mr. Doyle,” he said, “you’re a man I’ve a liking for and always had. What’s more, you’re a man I respect, and it isn’t everyone that I would say that to.”