Tim Bolton was standing behind the bar, and as he heard steps he looked carelessly toward the entrance, but when he saw Florence, his indifference vanished. He came from behind the bar, and advanced to meet her.
“Miss Linden,” he said.
Florence shrank back and clung to her companion’s arm.
“Is there anything I can do for you? I am a rough man, but I’m not so bad as you may think.”
“That’s what I told her, Tim,” said Mrs. O’Keefe. “I told Florence there was worse men than you.”
“Thank you, Mrs. O’Keefe. Can I offer you a glass of whiskey?”
The apple-woman was about to accept, but she felt an alarmed tug at her arm, and saw that Florence would be placed in an embarrassing position if she accepted. So, by an exercise of self-denial—for Mrs. O’Keefe was by no means insensible to the attractions of whiskey, though she never drank to excess—she said:
“Thank you kindly, Mr. Bolton. I won’t take any just now; but I’ll remind you of your offer another day.”
“Have it your own way, Mrs. O’Keefe. And now, what can I do for you and Miss Linden?”
“Oh, Mr. Bolton,” broke in Florence, unable to bear the suspense longer, “where is Dodger?”