"He seems to go where fancy leads. We'll have to
go from one groggery to another, and then try the dance houses,
unless they pass the word in time. The police are supposed to have
closed them, you know."
"Yes, they have!" The man's hearty Irish laugh startled these
wretched creatures, unused to laughter, and they forsook their apathy
or belligerence for a moment to stare. "They simply moved to the
back, or to the cellar. They know we believe in lettin' 'em go to the
devil their own way. Might as well turn in here."
They entered one of the groggeries. It was a large room. The ceiling
was low. The walls were foul with the accumulations of many years, it
was long since the tables had been washed. The bar, dripping and
slimy, looked as if about to fall to pieces, and the drinks were
served in cracked mugs. The bar-tender was evidently an ex-prize-
fighter, but the loose skin, empty of muscle, hung from his bare arms
in folds. The air was dense with vile tobacco smoke, adding to the
choice assortment of stenches imported from without and conferred by
Time within. Men and women, boys and girls, sat at the tables
drinking, or lay on the floor. There they would remain until their
drunken stupor wore off, when they would stagger home to begin a new
day.
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