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That night, when Kelcey arrived at the little smiling saloon, he found his friend Jones standing before the bar engaged in a violent argument with a stout man.

‘Oh, well,’ this latter person was saying, ‘you can make a lot of noise, Charley, for a man that never says anything—let’s have a drink!’

Jones was waving his arms and delivering splintering blows upon some distant theories. The stout man chuckled fatly and winked at the bar-tender.

The orator ceased for a moment to say, ‘Gimme little whisky, John.’ At the same time he perceived young Kelcey. He sprang forward with a welcoming cry. ‘Hello, of man! didn’t much think ye’d come.’ He led him to the stout man.

‘Mr. Bleecker—my friend Mr. Kelcey!’

‘How d’yeh do?’

‘Mr. Kelcey, I’m happy to meet you, sir; have a drink.’

They drew up in line and waited. The busy hands of the bar-tender made glasses clink. Mr. Bleecker, in a very polite way, broke the waiting silence.

‘Never been here before, I believe, have you, Mr. Kelcey?’

The young man felt around for a highbred reply. ‘Er—no—I’ve never had that—er—pleasure,’ he said.

After a time the strained and wary courtesy of their manners wore away. It became evident to Bleecker that his importance slightly dazzled the young man. He grew warmer. Obviously, the youth was one whose powers of perception were developed. Directly, then, he launched forth into a tale of bygone days, when the world was better. He had known all the great men of that age. He reproduced his conversations with them. There were traces of pride and of mournfulness in his voice. He rejoiced at the glory of the world of dead spirits. He grieved at the youth and flippancy of the present one. He lived with his head in the clouds of the past, and he seemed obliged to talk of what he saw there.

Jones nudged Kelcey ecstatically in the ribs. ‘You’ve got th’ of man started in great shape,’ he whispered.

Kelcey was proud that the prominent character of the place talked at him, glancing into his eyes for appreciation of fine points.

Presently they left the bar, and going into a little rear room, took seats about a table. A gas-jet with a coloured globe shed a crimson radiance. The polished wood of walls and furniture gleamed with faint rose-coloured reflections. Upon the floor sawdust was thickly sprinkled.

Two other men presently came. By the time Bleecker had told three tales of the grand past, Kelcey was slightly acquainted with everybody.

He admired Bleecker immensely. He developed a brotherly feeling for the others, who were all gentle-spoken. He began to feel that he was passing the happiest evening of his life. His companions were so jovial and good-natured; and everything they did was marked by such courtesy.

For a time the two men who had come in late did not presume to address him directly. They would say: ‘Jones, won’t your friend have so and so, or so and so?’ And Bleecker would begin his orations: ‘Now, Mr. Kelcey, don’t you think—’

Presently he began to believe that he was a most remarkably fine fellow, who had at last found his place in a crowd of most remarkably fine fellows.

Jones occasionally breathed comments into his ear.

‘I tell yeh, Bleecker’s an ol’-timer. He was a husky guy in his day, yeh can bet. He was one ‘a th’ best known men in N’ York once. Yeh ought to hear him tell about—’

Kelcey listened intently. He was profoundly interested in these intimate tales of men who had gleamed in the rays of old suns.

‘That O’Connor’s a damn fine fellah,’ interjected Jones once, referring to one of the others; ‘he’s one ‘a th’ best fellahs I ever knowed. He’s always on th’ dead level, an’ he’s always jest th’ same as yeh see him now—good-natured an’ grinnin’.’

Kelcey nodded. He could well believe it.

When he offered to buy drinks there came a loud volley of protests. ‘No, no, Mr. Kelcey,’ cried Bleecker; ‘no, no. To-night you are our guest. Some other time—’

‘Here,’ said O’Connor; ‘it’s my turn now.’

He called and pounded for the bar-tender. He then sat with a coin in hand warily eyeing the others. He was ready to frustrate them if they offered to pay.

After a time Jones began to develop qualities of great eloquence and wit. His companions laughed. ‘It’s the whisky talking now,’ said Bleecker.

He grew earnest and impassioned; he delivered speeches on various subjects. His lectures were to him very imposing. The force of his words thrilled him. Sometimes he was overcome.

The others agreed with him in all things. Bleecker grew almost tender, and considerately placed words here and there for his use. As Jones became fiercely energetic the others became more docile in agreeing. They soothed him with friendly interjections.

His mode changed directly. He began to sing popular airs with enthusiasm. He congratulated his companions upon being in his society. They were excited by his frenzy. They began to fraternize in jovial fashion. It was understood that they were true and tender spirits. They had come away from a grinding world filled with men who were harsh.

When one of them chose to divulge some place where the world had pierced him, there was a chorus of violent sympathy. They rejoiced at their temporary isolation and safety.

Once a man, completely drunk, stumbled along the floor of the saloon. He opened the door of the little room and made a show of entering. The men sprang instantly to their feet. They were ready to throttle any invader of their island. They elbowed each other in rivalry as to who should take upon himself the brunt of an encounter.

‘Oh!’ said the drunken individual, swaying on his legs and blinking at the party’ oh! thish private room?’

‘That’s what it is, Willie,’ said Jones. ‘An’ you git outa here, er we’ll throw yeh out.’

‘That’s what we will,’ said the others.

‘Oh!’ said the drunken man. He blinked at them aggrievedly for an instant and then went away.

They sat down again. Kelcey felt in a way that he would have liked to display his fidelity to the others by whipping the intruder.

The bar-tender came often. ‘Gee, you fellahs er tanks!’ he said in a jocular manner, as he gathered empty glasses and polished the table with his little towel.

Through the exertions of Jones, the little room began to grow clamorous. The tobacco smoke eddied about the forms of the men in ropes and wreaths. Near the ceiling there was a thick gray cloud.

Each man explained in his way that he was totally out of place in the before-mentioned world. They were possessed of various virtues, which were unappreciated by those with whom they were commonly obliged to mingle—they were fitted for a tree-shaded land, where everything was peace.

Now that five of them had congregated, it gave them happiness to speak their inmost thoughts without fear of being misunderstood.

As he drank more beer Kelcey felt his breast expand with manly feeling. He knew that he was capable of sublime things. He wished that some day one of his present companions would come to him for relief. His mind pictured a little scene. In it he was magnificent in his friendship.

He looked upon the beaming faces and knew that if at that instant there should come a time for a great sacrifice he would blissfully make it. He would pass tranquilly into the unknown, or into bankruptcy, amid the ejaculations of his companions upon his many virtues.

They had no bickerings during the evening. If one chose to momentarily assert himself, the others instantly submitted.

They exchanged compliments. Once old Bleecker stared at Jones for a few moments. Suddenly he broke out:

‘Jones, you’re one of the finest fellows I ever knew!’

A flush of pleasure went over the other’s face, and then he made a modest gesture, the protest of a humble man.

‘Don’t flimflam me, of boy,’ he said with earnestness.

But Bleecker roared that he was serious about it.

The two men arose and shook hands emotionally. Jones butted against the table and knocked off a glass.

Afterward a general hand-shaking was inaugurated. Brotherly sentiments flew about the room. There was an uproar of fraternal feeling.

Jones began to sing. He beat time with precision and dignity. He gazed into the eyes of his companions, trying to call music from their souls. O’Connor joined in heartily, but with another tune. Off in a corner old Bleecker was making a speech.

The bar-tender came to the door. ‘Gee, you fellahs er making a row. It’s time fer me t’ shut up th’ front th’ place, an’ you mugs better sit on yerselves. It’s one o’clock.’

They began to argue with him. Kelcey, however, sprang to his feet. ‘One o’clock?’ he said. ‘Holy smoke, I mus’ be flyin’!’

There came protesting howls from Jones. Bleecker ceased his oration.

‘My dear boy—’ he began.

Kelcey searched for his hat.

‘I’ve gota go t’ work at seven,’ he said.

The others watched him with discomfort in their eyes.

‘Well,’ said O’Connor, ‘if one goes we might as well all go.’

They sadly took their hats and filed out.

The cold air of the street filled Kelcey with vague surprise. It made his head feel hot. As for his legs, they were like willow-twigs.

A few yellow lights blinked. In front of an all-night restaurant a huge red electric lamp hung and sputtered. Horse-car bells jingled far down the street. Overhead a train thundered on the elevated road.

On the sidewalk the men took fervid leave. They clutched hands with extraordinary force, and proclaimed, for the last time, ardent and admiring friendships.

When he arrived at his home Kelcey proceeded with caution. His mother had left a light burning low. He stumbled once in his voyage across the floor. As he paused to listen he heard the sound of little snores coming from her room.

He lay awake for a few moments and thought of the evening. He had a pleasurable consciousness that he had made a good impression upon those fine fellows. He felt that he had spent the most delightful evening of his life.

CHAPTER V

Kelcey was cross in the morning. His mother had been obliged to shake him a great deal, and it had seemed to him a most unjust thing. Also, when he, blinking his eyes, had entered the kitchen, she had said: ‘Yeh left th’ lamp burnin’ all night last night, George. How many times must I tell yeh never t’ leave th’ lamp burnin’?’

He ate the greater part of his breakfast in silence, moodily stirring his coffee, and glaring at a remote corner of the room with eyes that felt as if they had been baked. When he moved his eyelids there was a sensation that they were cracking. In his mouth there was a singular taste. It seemed to him that he had been sucking the end of a wooden spoon. Moreover, his temper was rampant within him. It sought something to devour.

Finally he said savagely: ‘Damn these early hours!’

His mother jumped as if he had flung a missile at her. ‘Why, George—’ she began.

Kelcey broke in again. ‘Oh, I know all that; but this gettin’ up in th’ mornin’ so early makes me sick. Jest when a man is gettin’ his mornin’ nap he’s gota get up. I—’

‘George, dear,’ said his mother, ‘yeh know how I hate yeh t’ swear, dear. Now, please don’t.’ She looked beseechingly at him.

He made a swift gesture. ‘Well, I ain’t swearin’, am I?’ he demanded. ‘I was on’y sayin’ that this gettin’-up business gives me a pain, wasn’t I?’

Well, yeh know how swearin’ hurts me,’ protested the little old woman. She seemed about to sob. She gazed off retrospectively. She apparently was recalling persons who had never been profane.

‘I don’t see where yeh ever caught this way ‘a swearin’ out at everything,’ she continued presently. ‘Fred, ner John, ner Willie never swore a bit. Ner Tom neither, except when he was real mad.’

The son made another gesture. It was directed into the air, as if he saw there a phantom injustice. ‘Oh, good thunder!’ he said, with an accent of despair. Thereupon he relapsed into a mood of silence. He sombrely regarded his plate.

This demeanour speedily reduced his mother to meekness. When she spoke again it was in a conciliatory voice. ‘George, dear, won’t yeh bring some sugar home t’-night?’ It could be seen that she was asking for a crown of gold.

Kelcey aroused from his semi-slumber.

‘Yes, if I kin remember it,’ he said.

The little old woman arose to stow her son’s lunch into the pail. When he had finished his breakfast he stalked for a time about the room in a dignified way. He put on his coat and hat, and, taking his lunch-pail, went to the door. There he halted, and without turning his head, stiffly said:

‘Well, good-bye.’

The little old woman saw that she had offended her son. She did not seek an explanation. She was accustomed to these phenomena. She made haste to surrender.

‘Ain’t yeh goin’ t’ kiss me good-bye?’ she asked in a little woful voice.

The youth made a pretence of going on deaf-heartedly. He wore the dignity of an injured monarch.

Then the little old woman called again in forsaken accents: ‘George—George! ain’t yeh goin’ t’ kiss me good-bye?’ When he moved he found that she was hanging to his coat-tails.

He turned eventually with a murmur of a sort of tenderness. ‘Why, ‘a course I am,’ he said. He kissed her. Withal, there was an undertone of superiority in his voice, as if he were granting an astonishing suit. She looked at him with reproach and gratitude and affection.

She stood at the head of the stairs and watched his hand sliding along the rail as he went down. Occasionally she could see his arm and part of his shoulder. When he reached the first-floor she called to him ‘Good-bye!’

The little old woman went back to her work in the kitchen with a frown of perplexity upon her brow. ‘I wonder what was th’ matter with George this mornin’,’ she mused. ‘He didn’t seem a bit like himself!’

As she trudged to and fro at her labour she began to speculate. She was much worried. She surmised in a vague way that he was a sufferer from a great internal disease. It was something, no doubt, that devoured the kidneys or quietly fed upon the lungs. Later, she imagined a woman, wicked and fair, who had fascinated him, and was turning his life into a bitter thing. Her mind created many wondrous influences that were swooping like green dragons at him. They were changing him to a morose man, who suffered silently. She longed to discover them, that she might go bravely to the rescue of her heroic son. She knew that he, generous in his pain, would keep it from her. She racked her mind for knowledge.

However, when he came home at night he was extraordinarily blithe. He seemed to be a lad of ten. He capered all about the room. When she was bringing the coffee-pot from the stove to the table he made show of waltzing with her, so that she spilled some of the coffee. She was obliged to scold him.

All through the meal he made jokes. She occasionally was compelled to laugh, despite the fact that she believed that she should not laugh at her own son’s jokes. She uttered reproofs at times, but he did not regard them.

‘Golly,’ he said once, ‘I feel fine as silk. I didn’t think I’d get over feelin’ bad so quick. It—’ He stopped abruptly.

During the evening he sat content. He smoked his pipe and read from an evening paper. She bustled about at her work. She seemed utterly happy with him there, lazily puffing out little clouds of smoke and giving frequent brilliant dissertations upon the news of the day. It seemed to her that she must be a model mother to have such a son, one who came home to her at night and sat contented, in a languor of the muscles after a good day’s toil. She pondered upon the science of her management.

The week thereafter, too, she was joyous, for he stayed at home each night of it, and was sunny-tempered. She became convinced that she was a perfect mother, rearing a perfect son. There came often a lovelight into her eyes. The wrinkled, yellow face frequently warmed into a smile of the kind that a maiden bestows upon him who to her is first and perhaps last.