Leaving the saloon, he walked away twenty steps and leaned in the open doorway of Lutz, the barber.  He and Lutz were friends, masking their sentiments behind abuse and bludgeons of repartee.

“Irish loafer,” roared Lutz, “how do you do?  So, not yet haf der bolicemans or der catcher of dogs done deir duty!”

“Hello, Dutch,” said Mr. McQuirk.  “Can’t get your mind off of frankfurters, can you?”

“Bah!” exclaimed the German, coming and leaning in the door.  “I haf a soul above frankfurters to-day.  Dere is springtime in der air.  I can feel it coming in ofer der mud of der streets and das ice in der river.  Soon will dere be bicnics in der islands, mit kegs of beer under der trees.”

“Say,” said Mr. McQuirk, setting his hat on one side, “is everybody kiddin’ me about gentle Spring?  There ain’t any more spring in the air than there is in a horsehair sofa in a Second Avenue furnished room.  For me the winter underwear yet and the buckwheat cakes.”

“You haf no boetry,” said Lutz.  “True, it is yedt cold, und in der city we haf not many of der signs; but dere are dree kinds of beoble dot should always feel der approach of spring first—­dey are boets, lovers and poor vidows.”

Mr. McQuirk went on his way, still possessed by the strange perturbation that he did not understand.  Something was lacking to his comfort, and it made him half angry because he did not know what it was.

Two blocks away he came upon a foe, one Conover, whom he was bound in honor to engage in combat.

Mr. McQuirk made the attack with the characteristic suddenness and fierceness that had gained for him the endearing sobriquet of “Tiger.”  The defence of Mr. Conover was so prompt and admirable that the conflict was protracted until the onlookers unselfishly gave the warning cry of “Cheese it—­the cop!” The principals escaped easily by running through the nearest open doors into the communicating backyards at the rear of the houses.

Mr. McQuirk emerged into another street.  He stood by a lamp-post for a few minutes engaged in thought and then he turned and plunged into a small notion and news shop.  A red-haired young woman, eating gum-drops, came and looked freezingly at him across the ice-bound steppes of the counter.

“Say, lady,” he said, “have you got a song book with this in it.  Let’s see how it leads off—­

   “’When the springtime comes we’ll wander in the dale, love,
     And whisper of those days of yore—­’

“I’m having a friend,” explained Mr. McQuirk, “laid up with a broken leg, and he sent me after it.  He’s a devil for songs and poetry when he can’t get out to drink.”

“We have not,” replied the young woman, with unconcealed contempt.  “But there is a new song out that begins this way: 

   “’Let us sit together in the old arm-chair;
     And while the firelight flickers we’ll be comfortable there.’”