The bar-keeper said there was nothing like a hot-scotch to make you sleep; and a small man with his hat on, who had been talking with the bar-keeper, and coming up to the counter occasionally to eat a bit of cracker or a bit of cheese out of the two bowls full of such fragments that stood at the end of the counter, said that this was so.
It was very cheerful in the bar-room, with the light glittering on the rows of decanters behind the bar-keeper, a large, stout, clean, pale man in his shirt-sleeves, after the manner of his kind; and Bartley made up his mind to stay there till he was drowsy, and to drink as many hot-scotches as were necessary to the result. He had his drink put on a little table and sat down to it easily, stirring it to cool it a little, and feeling its flattery in his brain from the first sip.
The man who was munching cheese and crackers wore a hat rather large for him, pulled down over his eyes. He now said that he did not care if he took a gin-sling, and the bar-keeper promptly set it before him on the counter, and saluted with “Good evening, Colonel,” a large man who came in, carrying a small dog in his arms. Bartley recognized him as the manager of a variety combination playing at one of the theatres, and the manager recognized the little man with the gin-sling as Tommy. He did not return the bar-keeper's salutation, but he asked, as he sat down at a table, “What do I want for supper, Charley?”
The bar-keeper said, oracularly, as he leaned forward to wipe his counter with a napkin, “Fricassee chicken.”
“Fricassee devil,” returned the manager. “Get me a Welsh rabbit.”
The bar-keeper, unperturbed by this rejection, called into the tube behind him, “One Welsh rabbit.”
“I want some cold chicken for my dog,” said the manager.
“One cold chicken,” repeated the bar-keeper, in his tube.
“White meat,” said the manager.
“White meat,” repeated the bar-keeper.