At the foot of the stairway was another door, and this stood open. It gave upon another hallway, carpeted richly, and dim, yet not so dark but what Captain Folsom could see his way. This faint illumination came up a great open stairway from a wide and deep living room below into which descended another stairway at the far end of the hall.
A male voice, not unmusical, singing a rousing chorus in Italian, and peering circumspectly through an open balustrade into that lower room, Captain Folsom saw the singer seated at a great square piano, a giant of a man with a huge shock of dark brown hair and ferocious mustaches, while a coal black negro, even huger in size, lolled negligently at one end of the keyboard, his red lips parted wide in a grin of enjoyment and ivory white teeth showing between, and at the other end of the piano, with his elbows planted on the instrument and his head pressed between his hands, stood or rather leaned a 124 rough-looking man of medium height, his grizzled hair all awry where he had run his fingers through it, and wearing a khaki shirt open at the throat.
“Sing that again, Pete. What d’ye call it? The Bull Fighter Song, hey? Well, I don’t know much about music, but that gits under my skin. Come on.”
The man called Pete was about to comply, and the Negro was nodding his head in violent approval, when the door from the outside gallery was burst open unceremoniously, and a villainous looking individual whirled into the room in a state of great excitement. Others were behind him but, evidently not daring to venture within, stood grouped in the open doorway.
“Here, Mike, wot d’ye mean, comin’ in like this? Into a gentleman’s house, too. Don’t ye know any better, ye scut?” demanded the first speaker, he who had asked for a repetition of the song.
Evidently, thought Captain Folsom, here was the leader, for the other deferred to him, although it was apparent he was a privileged character.
“Ah, now, Paddy Ryan,” said the man called Mike; “ah, now, Paddy Ryan, sure an’ I know ’tis a gentleman’s house since you rule it. But do them fellers on the roof know it?”
“Fellers on the roof?” said Ryan, advancing a 125 step, threateningly. “Mike, ye been drinkin’ again. An’ the night’s work not done yet. Out on ye, ye—ye––”
“Listen,” said Mike, holding up a hand. “Listen. ’Tis all I ask. Sure an’ wid Pete caterwaulin’, ’tis no wonder at all ye cannot hear wot’s goin’ on. Hear the shootin’ now, don’t ye?”
As if he were a magician calling the demonstration into being at command, the shooting and shouting of the trio on the roof, which for the moment had died down, was now violently renewed. Ryan’s lower jaw dropped open grotesquely.