The saloon consisted of one long, low room, on one side of which was located the conventional bar, with its background of glittering decanters and dazzling glasses and its “choice assortment of liquors”—­ to quote the sign which called attention to these necessary luxuries.

A large stove stood in the center of the room, and a number of small tables were placed around promiscuously, The bar-tender, a smooth-faced, beetle-browed rascal, was engaged in shaking dice for the drinks with a customer, and, to the music of the violin, a light-footed Irishman was executing his national jig, to the great delight and no small edification of his enthusiastic audience.

The wide sombreroes, perched back on the head, pointed out the cowboys who were making up for the lonesome days and nights on the plains.

It was a motley crowd, a fair specimen of the heterogeneous mass of humanity which floats hither and there all over our western States, and contained some villainous-looking fellows.

As the tramp entered, the interest in the jig was developing into enthusiasm.  Hands were clapped, and fingers snapped to the time of the nimble heels and toes of the jaunty Corkonian.  The violinist was settling down to vigorous work, and Pat, having the incentive of anticipated free drinks as a reward for his efforts, was executing the most intricate of steps.

The tramp lounged to the bar, followed by the suspicious glance of the bar-keeper, who assumed a more respectful demeanor as the object of his suspicions threw down a silver quarter and named his drink.  It was quickly furnished, and as quickly disposed of.  The dancer had finished his jig and accepted with alacrity the proffered offers to wet his whistle.  As he stepped to the bar his glance fell upon the tramp.

“Are ye drinkin’ this aivenin’?”

“I am that,” responded the tramp,

“Faith, an’ its not at yer own expinse, then,” with a glance at the ragged clothing and “hard-up” appearance of the wanderer.

“An’ a divil sight less at yours,” retorted the tramp.  “But by the same token, we both get our rosy by manes of our heels.”

“Shure fir ye, lad.  Its hard up I’ve been myself before the now, but its a cold day when Barney O’Hara will let a bog-trotter go dry—­name your poison.”

“Its the rale ould stuff I’ll be a takin’ straight,” and the tramp spread his elbows on the counter and soon demonstrated his ability to gulp down the fiery fluid without any such effeminate trimmings as water in it.  After the first glass had been emptied the tramp said: 

“I’ve had a bit of luck to-day; what’s your medicine?”

“The same,” responded Barney.

The liquor was poured into the glasses, and the tramp, diving deep in his pockets, drew out some small silver currency, and, with a movement expressive of untold wealth, threw it on the counter.

As he did so, the bar-keeper uttered an oath of astonishment, several of the roysterers sprang forward, and Barney, with an exclamation of amazement, put his hand on a Pinkerton detective star, with its terrible eye in the center, which had fallen on the counter with the nickles and dimes the tramp had thrown down.