“That is a vulgar way of expressing the same idea.”
“Stranger treats the crowd,” said O’Leary with an easy authority. “That’s the rule of the game wherever I have played. I’m asking you. Happen to have a little swelling in the pocket just at present. When it’s empty, which will be soon enough, why—your turn. How about it, neighbors? Suppose we look each other over and size it up?”
Half an hour later they deployed from the Arcade and set out for Healy’s, grimly determined on revelry and the conquest of the glums. Unfortunately, the Christmas crowds were still about them, homeward bound.
“They might get home at a decent hour,” said Flick, indignantly.
“No turkeys to-night,” said Tootles. “I’m against it. My word! The thought of all those birds, plucked and skinned, thousands and thousands”—he reflected a moment—“no, hundreds of thousands—think of it—hundreds of thousands of turkeys!”
“Confound them, they look happy,” said Flick, blowing the snow from his nostrils. “Well, anyhow, they’ll all be ill to-morrow!”
King O’Leary squared his shoulders and looked straight ahead, but he found a moment, as they were crossing the newsboys at the subway, to slip surreptitiously a shiny quarter into the fist of a pursuing urchin.
“No public stuff,” he said, as he entered by the bar entrance. “A quiet corner where men can lounge and spin a yarn as they like. Here’s a seat. Shove in.” He glanced at the rough-hewn crowd by the rail, and said grimly: “Mighty grateful to you fellows. Suppose I’d have had to pick up with one of those guys.”
They slipped into a padded nook with high backs, tucked away from the whirl of mirrors and the regimented bottles beyond the black, curved backs, and derbies pushed over the ears.