“Nominate yer dose, gentlemen.”
While the party, glasses in hand, were putting themselves en rapport, the door again opened, and now the hush that fell upon the assembled “gentlemen” was deeper and more lasting.
Evidently, the person who entered was a stranger to all in the Thieves’ Tavern, for such the building was.
He was a young man, with a countenance half fierce, half desperate, wholly depraved. He was haggard, dirty, and ragged, having the look and the gait of a man who has travelled far and is footsore and weary. As he approached the group about the bar it was also evident that he was half intoxicated.
“Good evenin’, sirs,” he said with surly indifference. Then to the man behind the bar: “Mix us a cocktail, old Top, and strong.”
While the bar keeper was deftly shaking up the desired drink, the men before the counter drew further away from the stranger, and some of them began a whispered conversation.
The last arrival eyed them with a sneer of contempt, and said to the bar keeper, as he gulped down his drink: “Your coves act like scared kites. Probably they ain’t used to good society.”
“See here, my friend,” spoke a blustering fellow, advancing toward him, “you made a little mistake. This ’ere ain’t a tramps’ lodgin’ house.”
“Ain’t it?” queried the stranger; “then what the Moses are you doin’ here?”
“You’ll swallow that, my hearty!”