He had brought up an orchestra which demanded fifteen dollars a day and he paid them that and more.  He not only was able to do this, but he established a bar at the entrance from which all who entered were served with a free drink.  The entrance, also, was not subject to charge.  The initial drink at the door was spiced to encourage thirst, so Milligan made money as fast, and far more easily, than if he had been digging it out of the ground.

To the door of this pleasure emporium came Donnegan.  He had transformed himself into the ragged hobo by the jerking down of his cap again, and the hunching of his shoulders.  And shrinking past the bar with a hungry sidewise glance, as one who did not dare present himself for free liquor, he entered Milligan’s.

That is, he had put his foot across the threshold when he was caught roughly by the shoulder and dragged to one side.  He found himself looking up into the face of a strapping fellow who served Milligan as bouncer.  Milligan had an eye for color.  Andy Lewis was tolerably well known as a fighting man of parts, who not only wore two guns but could use them both at once, which is much more difficult than is generally understood.  But far more than for his fighting parts Milligan hired his bouncer for the sake of his face.  It was a countenance made to discourage trouble makers.  A mule had kicked Lewis in the chin, and a great white welt deformed his lower lip.  Scars of smallpox added to his decorative effect, and he had those extremely bushy brows which for some reason are generally considered to denote ferocity.  Now, Donnegan was not above middle height at best, and in his present shrinking attitude he found himself looking up a full head into the formidable face of the bouncer.

“And what are you doing in here?” asked the genial Andy.  “Don’t you know this joint is for white folks?”

“I ain’t colored,” murmured Donnegan.

“You took considerable yaller to me,” declared Lewis.  He straightway chuckled, and his own keen appreciation of his wit softened his expression.  “What you want?”

Donnegan shivered under his rags.

“I want to see Jack Landis,” he said.

It had a wonderful effect upon the doorkeeper.  Donnegan found that the very name of Landis was a charm of power in The Corner.

“You want to see him?” he queried in amazement.  “You?”

He looked Donnegan over again, and then grinned broadly, as if in anticipation.  “Well, go ahead.  There he sits—­no, he’s dancing.”

The music was in full swing; it was chiefly brass; but now and then, in softer moments, one could hear a violin squeaking uncertainly.  At least it went along with a marked, regular rhythm, and the dancers swirled industriously around the floor.  A very gay crowd; color was apparently appreciated in The Corner.  And Donnegan, standing modestly out of sight behind a pillar until the dance ended, noted twenty phases of life in twenty faces.  And Donnegan saw the flushes of liquor, and heard the loud voices of happy fellows who had made their “strikes”; but in all that brilliant crew he had no trouble in picking out Jack Landis and Nelly Lebrun.