"Nancy Lee—"
The vaulted ceiling sent the round, high notes back to the eager ears of the audience.
"Yo-ho-boyoys, ho—"
The "yo-ho" didn't sound with the proper vigor. It was flat. A frown appeared between Terry's arched eyebrows. He was singing his "Yo-ho's" alone! Slowly he turned, still singing, to face the other minstrels. Some one snickered, "Do you see us singing with a bar-tender?"
"Nance—"
Terry stopped. A calloused fist, with strong muscle and Irish temper to speed it, shot out.
"Curtain!" called the manager, wildly. The audience, though somewhat surprised, accepted this performance as a ridiculous climatic ending to one of the "stunts," and gave a vigorous applause. But Terry heeded neither applause nor curtain. He was demonstrating to these unmannerly show men, that though they might refuse to sing with a bar-tender, they could not refuse to accept from one a lesson in pugilism.
Terry paused to take a long breath. He glared at the men, one of whom was holding a handkerchief to a rapidly swelling eye, another of whom was hugging an aching side. Terry had done his work quickly. The manager hastened up to interfere.
"They might a' told me so afore. It isn't me as they need be makin' a fool of. I'm made as good as them, even if it do be a truth that I sell the beer they drink," Terry said, dazed. He picked up the battered opera hat which had been part of his costume and started towards the door.
"My dear Mr. Flynn, I will adjust this little misunderstanding. I assure you, it shall not occur again."