Ten Nights in a Bar Room

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T. S. Arthur. Ten Nights in a Bar Room

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Ten Nights

in a Bar Room

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“And the graveyard, too,” muttered the individual who had before disturbed the self-satisfied harmony of the company, remarking upon the closing sentence of Harvey Green. “Come, landlord,” he added, as he strode across to the bar, speaking in a changed, reckless sort of a way, “fix me up a good hot whisky-punch, and do it right; and here’s another sixpence toward the fortune you are bound to make. It’s the last one left—not a copper more in my pockets,” and he turned them inside-out, with a half-solemn, half-ludicrous air. “I send it to keep company in your till with four others that have found their way into that snug place since morning, and which will be lonesome without their little friend.”

I looked at Simon Slade; his eyes rested on mine for a moment or two, and then sunk beneath my earnest gaze. I saw that his countenance flushed, and that his motions were slightly confused. The incident, it was plain, did not awaken agreeable thoughts. Once I saw his hand move toward the sixpence that lay upon the counter; but whether to push it back or draw it toward the till, I could not determine. The whisky-punch was in due time ready, and with it the man retired to a table across the room, and sat down to enjoy the tempting beverage. As he did so, the landlord quietly swept the poor unfortunate’s last sixpence into his drawer. The influence of this strong potation was to render the man a little more talkative. To the free conversation passing around him he lent an attentive ear, dropping in a word, now and then, that always told upon the company like a well-directed blow. At last, Slade lost all patience with him, and said, a little fretfully:

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