“I shall have to ask you to give me the odd two hundred and fifty,” Peter said, “as that is my legal fee.”

“You had better let me put that in your name, Mr. Stirling?” said the president, who had been called into the consultation.

“Very well,” said Peter.  “I shall want some of it before long, but the rest will be very well off here.”  So a book was handed him, and the president shook him by the hand with all the warmth that eight thousand two hundred and fifty dollars of increased assets and four new depositors implied.

Peter did not need to draw any of the two hundred and fifty dollars, however.  In November he had another knock at his door.

It proved to be Mr. Dennis Moriarty, of whom we have incidentally spoken in connection with the half-price drinks for the Milligan wake, and as spokesman of the torchlight procession.

“Good-mornin’ to yez, sir,” said the visitor.

It was a peculiarity of Peter’s that he never forgot faces.  He did not know Mr. Moriarty’s name, never having had it given him, but he placed him instantly.

“Thank you,” said Peter, holding out his hand.  Peter did not usually shake hands in meeting people, but he liked the man’s face.  It would never take a prize for beauty.  The hair verged on a fiery red, the nose was a real sky-scraper and the tipper lip was almost proboscidian in its length.  But every one liked the face.

“It’s proud Oi’m bein’ shakin’ the hand av Misther Stirling,” said the Irishman.

“Sit down,” said Peter.

“My name’s Moriarty, sir, Dinnis Moriarty, an’ Oi keeps a saloon near Centre Street, beyant.”

“You were round here in the procession.”

“Oi was, sir.  Shure, Oi’m not much at a speech, compared to the likes av yez, but the b’ys would have me do it.”

Peter said something appropriate, and then there was a pause.

“Misther Stirling,” finally said Moriarty, “Oi was up before Justice Gallagher yesterday, an’ he fined me bad.  Oi want yez to go to him, an’ get him to be easier wid me.  It’s yezself can do it.”

“What were you fined for?” asked Peter.

“For bein’ open on Sunday.”

“Then you ought to be fined.”

“Don’t say that till Oi tell yez.  Oi don’t want to keep my place open, but it’s in my lease, an’ so Oi have to.”

“In your lease?” enquired Peter.

“Yes.”  And the paper was handed over to him.

Peter ran over the three documents.  “I see,” he said, “you are only the caretaker really, the brewer having an assignment of the lease and a chattel mortgage on your fixtures and stock.”

“That’s it,” said Dennis.  “It’s mighty quick yez got at it.  It’s caretaker Oi am, an’ a divil of a care it is.  Shure, who wants to work seven days a week, if he can do wid six?”

“You should have declined to agree to that condition?”

“Then Oi’d have been turned out.  Begobs, it’s such poor beer that it’s little enough Oi sell even in seven days.”