Dark looks and murderous eyes were turned on the tramp, and more than one hand was placed on a revolver, The bar-keeper with an ugly look, and bullying swagger, stepped from behind the bar and advanced on the tramp, his face distorted with rage, and his fists doubled in a most aggressive manner.

The tramp, without moving, and apparently ignorant of the sensation he had created, raised his glass to his lips, and with a hearty “Here’s to ye, lads,” tossed off the whisky.

As he replaced his glass, he became aware that he was the center of attention, and facing the bar-keeper, said: 

“What’s the row with ye?  I paid fer the drinks,”

“What are you doin’ with a detective’s star?” said the bar-keeper,

“Haven’t I a right to one; I dunno—­finders keepers, losers weepers—­I picked the bit of brass up on the road not over an hour ago,”

The bar-keeper was not to be pacified by such a story, and in a threatening voice, he asked: 

“Are you a man-hunter or not?”

The tramp threw a pitying glance of scorn at the pugilistic whisky-seller, as he replied: 

“Be gorra, ye damned fool, do you think that I’d be after givin’ myself away like this if I was one?”

“In course ye wouldn’t,” broke in Barney.  “Don’t be a fool, Jerry, this man is no detective,” and Barney fastened the star to the vest which encircled the portly form of the bar-keeper.

“Now ye’re one yerself, an’ will be after runnin’ us all in fer not detectin’ enough of the elegant liquor ye handle.”

To this the man could make no reply, save a deep, hoarse laugh, and resuming his professional position, was shortly engaged in alleviating the thirst of his patrons.

This little episode had just occurred, when the door of the inner room was thrown violently open and a man, his coat off, rushed up to the bar.

“Here, Jerry, break this fifty for me,” at the same time throwing down a fifty-dollar bill, crisp and fresh.

“Your playin’ in bad luck to-day, Cook?”

“Yes, damn it,” said Cook.  “Give me a drink for good luck.”

As the bar-keeper uttered the name of Cook a quick, but hardly perceptible glance of intelligence passed between Barney and the tramp.

Cook hastily swallowed his whisky, rushed back to the poker table with a handful of five dollar bills, and quiet reigned over the place.  The bar-keeper, who spied a possible good customer in the tramp, had entered into a little conversation at the end of the counter, on which the tramp leaned, the embodiment of solid comfort, puffing his cigar vigorously, or allowing it to burn itself out in little rings of smoke.

“You’re a stranger to these parts?”

With an expressive wink, the tramp replied: 

“Not so much as ye think, I’ve spint many a noight around here.”

“Night hawk, eh? an’ I took you for a man-trailer.”