“Why,” said Cork McManus, pulling his ear, “I’m the latest thing in suitings with side vents and bell skirt when it comes to escortin’ a lady.  You bet you’ll find me all right, Ruby.  And I’ll give you a tip as to who I am.  My governor is one of the hottest cross-buns of the Wall Street push.  Morgan’s cab horse casts a shoe every time the old man sticks his head out the window.  Me!  Well, I’m in trainin’ down the Street.  The old man’s goin’ to put a seat on the Stock Exchange in my stockin’ my next birthday.  But it all sounds like a lemon to me.  What I like is golf and yachtin’ and—­er—­well, say a corkin’ fast ten-round bout between welter-weights with walkin’ gloves.”

“I guess you can walk to the door with me,” said the girl hesitatingly, but with a certain pleased flutter.  “Still I never heard anything extra good about Wall Street brokers, or sports who go to prize fights, either.  Ain’t you got any other recommendations?”

“I think you’re the swellest looker I’ve had my lamps on in little old New York,” said Cork impressively.

“That’ll be about enough of that, now.  Ain’t you the kidder!” She modified her chiding words by a deep, long, beaming, smile-embellished look at her cavalier.  “We’ll drink our beer before we go, ha?”

A waiter sang.  The tobacco smoke grew denser, drifting and rising in spirals, waves, tilted layers, cumulus clouds, cataracts and suspended fogs like some fifth element created from the ribs of the ancient four.  Laughter and chat grew louder, stimulated by Rooney’s liquids and Rooney’s gallant hospitality to Lady Nicotine.

One o’clock struck.  Down-stairs there was a sound of closing and locking doors.  Frank pulled down the green shades of the front windows carefully.  Rooney went below in the dark hall and stood at the front door, his cigarette cached in the hollow of his hand.  Thenceforth whoever might seek admittance must present a countenance familiar to Rooney’s hawk’s eye—­the countenance of a true sport.

Cork McManus and the bookbindery girl conversed absorbedly, with their elbows on the table.  Their glasses of beer were pushed to one side, scarcely touched, with the foam on them sunken to a thin white scum.  Since the stroke of one the stale pleasures of Rooney’s had become renovated and spiced; not by any addition to the list of distractions, but because from that moment the sweets became stolen ones.  The flattest glass of beer acquired the tang of illegality; the mildest claret punch struck a knockout blow at law and order; the harmless and genial company became outlaws, defying authority and rule.  For after the stroke of one in such places as Rooney’s, where neither bed nor board is to be had, drink may not be set before the thirsty of the city of the four million.  It is the law.

“Say,” said Cork McManus, almost covering the table with his eloquent chest and elbows, “was that dead straight about you workin’ in the bookbindery and livin’ at home—­and just happenin’ in here—­and—­and all that spiel you gave me?”