«Began fighting each other in the back room,» explained Kenealy to Con. «And singing! That was worse. Smashed everything pretty much up. But they're good men. They'll pay for everything. Trying to invent some new kind of cocktail, they was. I'll see they come out all right in the morning.»
Con sauntered into the back room to view the battlefield. As he went through the hall Katherine was just coming down the stairs.
«Good evening again, Mr. Lantry,» said she. «And is there no news from the weather yet?»
«Still threatens r–rain,» said Con, slipping past with red in his smooth, pale cheek.
Riley and McQuirk had indeed waged a great and friendly battle. Broken bottles and glasses were everywhere. The room was full of alcohol fumes; the floor was variegated with spirituous puddles.
On the table stood a 32–ounce glass graduated measure. In the bottom of it were two tablespoonfuls of liquid—a bright golden liquid that seemed to hold the sunshine a prisoner in its auriferous depths.
Con smelled it. He tasted it. He drank it.
As he returned through the hall Katherine was just going up the stairs.
«No news yet, Mr. Lantry?» she asked with her teasing laugh.
Con lifted her clear from the floor and held her there.