One of these saloons was on a side street.  The back door of it faced the towpath.  It did not have a very good reputation; and though, for two years, no disturbances had occurred there, the police still kept an eye on the place.  It was on the boundary line of the two most turbulent wards in the city.  To the north was the Italian colony, to the south was the Irish colony.  Both were orderly and self-respecting as a rule, though squalor and poverty abounded.  But these two races are at once the simplest and most quick-tempered, and whenever an Irishman or an Italian crossed the boundary line there was usually a hurry call for the patrol wagon, and some one was always more or less battered up.

Over this saloon was a series of small rooms which were called “wine rooms,” though nobody opened wine there.  Beer was ten cents a glass up stairs, and whisky twenty.  Women were not infrequently seen climbing the stairs to these rooms.  But, as already stated, everybody behaved.  Schmuck, who managed the saloon, was a giant of a man, a Turnvereiner, who could hold his own with any man in town.  It will be understood that the orderliness was therefore due to a respect for Schmuck’s strength, and not to any inclination to be orderly.

On this night, then, at nine o’clock, a man entered and approached the bar.  He was sharp-eyed, lean-faced, with a heavy blue beard closely shaven, saving the mustache, which was black and hung over the man’s lips.  He wore good clothes.  There was a large diamond on one of his fingers and another in the bosom of his shirt, in which a white tie was tucked carefully.  They were yellow diamonds.  But those among whom this man moved did not know the difference between yellow stones and white.  Morrissy was accounted very well-to-do.

“Hello, Schmuck!” he hailed.  “Got the room up stairs in order?”

“Yes.”  Schmuck wiped the bar.  “Der poss iss coming to-night, I see.  Huh?”

“Yes.  He ought to be along now,” replied Morrissy, glancing at his watch, which was as conspicuous as his yellow diamonds.

“How you getting along mit der poys?”

“Oh, we’re coming along fine, all right.”

“Going to call ’em out uf der mills?  Huh?”

“Perhaps.  When the boss comes, tell him I’m up stairs.”

Morrissy lighted a cigar, took the evening papers from the end of the bar, and disappeared.  Schmuck could hear him moving the chairs about.  Ten minutes later McQuade appeared.  Schmuck nodded toward the stairs, and without a word McQuade went up.

“Good evening, Morrissy.  I missed a car, or I’d have been here earlier.”

“That’s all right, Mr. McQuade; glad to wait for you.”  Morrissy threw aside his papers and drew his chair to the table.

McQuade closed the door and sat down.

“You got my letter?” he began, wiping his forehead.

Morrissy nodded.

“Well?”

“Well, the boys will go out Monday morning.  A committee will wait on Bennington in the morning.  He won’t back down and discharge the English inventor, so it’s a sure thing they’ll walk out, every mother’s son of them.”