A bar-keep quit the Ryans and went to serve him. "Well," says he, heaps insolent, "what do you want?"
The patrone looked at him smiling. "You seem out of sorts, Bill; have a drink with me. I'll take a whisky."
The bar-keep glared at him.
"Oh, by the way," says Balshannon, "I'll have to square up for this to-morrow morning."
"Terms cash," says the bar-keep.
"Really?" Balshannon smiled at his ugly face. "Oh, of course—your orders, eh? Well, never mind. You're so polite, Bill, that—er—that just by way of thanks I'll ask you to accept this little token." He chucked him the silver cigarette-case and turned away from the bar.
But I was bull-roaring mad. "Patrone," says I, "patrone, I owe you heaps of money. Here, take this!"
But Balshannon laid both his hands upon my shoulders, smiling right into my eyes. "Dear friend," he said, "you know I could not take money, even from you."
A thick voice was calling from the other end of the bar: "Here, bar-keep, you give this man a drink!"
Then the patrone looked round. "Ah, Ryan, eh?" He walked straight up to his enemy. "I'll drink with you gladly, Ryan. Suppose we forget the past, and try to be good—er—friends, eh?" He held out his hand, but Ryan took no notice. "Hello, I see your son is with you, Ryan. Good evening, Michael."