The inside fittings of the place were what may be termed “flashy,” immense gilded mirrors and crimson-covered seats being the outstanding features in the general scheme of furnishing and decoration. A mahogany, tumbler-laden bar, with shelves of massed bottles in the background, ran the whole length of the apartment, whilst on the other side were a range of what I can best describe as cubicles, though in public-house parlance I suppose they would be called “snugs.” There was a door to each of these box-like apartments, though the ceiling of the saloon was common to them all.
“Come in here,” urged my friend, tugging at my coat-sleeve. “It will be quieter, and no one will disturb us.”
We entered the “snug,” which contained a long narrow table, with horsehair-padded seats on either side, an oblong window, half screened, serving to let in a rather subdued light.
Scarcely had I got both my feet inside when I observed with surprise that the place had already an occupant, a benevolent-looking old gentleman, who at that moment was studiously engaged in perusing the columns of a newspaper.
My companion, noticing my hesitation, exclaimed in a cheery voice, “It’s all right, my boy; I’m sure our friend won’t object.”
Looking up from his paper “our friend” adjusted his spectacles and regarded us both with a quizzical expression.
“Come in; don’t mind me,” he said at length, as if satisfied with our appearance, and we sat down at the table, my companion on one side, I on the other, the first occupant taking no further notice of us.
“I’m going to have a toothful of whisky,” said my fashionably-dressed vis-à-vis. “Will you have the same?”
I diffidently demurred at the proposal, as all alcoholic beverages were then to me as a sealed book, and in the end a bottle of lemonade was ordered for me.
And there I sat, sipping the lemonade and nervously fingering the bundle of notes in my trousers pocket.