“If he doesn’t get it here,” said Kay, “he’ll go to Tim Sullivan’s across the way, and get bad liquor. Ours at least is pure.” During the long twelve hours that the Hub was open either Kay or myself was always on duty, talking to customers, keeping an eye (as we hoped!) on the bar-tenders, showing ourselves with an air of authority in the House of Commons when, as usually, it became too rowdy--Kay enjoying the occasional “chucking out.” At lunch time and from four to half-past six or seven o’clock, the bars were invariably crowded. The amount of milkless tea we drank ought to have poisoned us both, but we never fell from grace in this respect, and we kept faithfully, too, to Jimmy Martin’s advice never to “put ’em up” for others. Days were long and arduous. Though we soon closed the dining room after lunch, doing no supper trade, there were public dinners once or twice a week for Masonic societies, football clubs and the like, and at these one or other of the proprietors was expected to show himself. To my great relief, Kay rather enjoyed this light duty. His talent for acting was often in demand too; he would don his Henry Irving wig and give the company an imitation of the great actor in “The Bells.” Kay was very successful at these “banquets,” and sometimes a Society would engage the room on the condition that he performed for them after dinner. What annoyed him was that “the silly idiots always order champagne!” There was no profit worth mentioning in “wine,” as it was called. The profit was in beer and “liquor.” The histrionic talent, at any rate, was an accomplishment that proved useful later in our difficult New York days, when Kay not only got a job on the stage himself, but provided me with a part as well. The shadow of that East 19th Street boarding-house was already drawing nearer ... and another customer of the Hub who was to share it with us was Louis B----, a voluble, high-strung fat little Frenchman, of mercurial temperament and great musical gifts. When a Hub banquet had seen enough of the Irving wig, and expressed a wish to hear the other proprietor, it was always Louis B---- who accompanied my fiddle on the piano. Raff’s “Cavatina” was tolerated, the “Berçeuse” from “Jocelyn” enjoyed, but the popular songs of the day, Louis extemporizing all accompaniments with his perfect touch, it was these that were good for “business.” The fat, good-natured little man, with his bright dark eyes and crisp curly black hair, demanded several absinthes before he would play. He was a born musician. He loved, in the order mentioned, music, horses, his wife, and from the last he always had to obtain permission to “play at the Hub.” Towards midnight he would dash to the telephone and say pleadingly to his wife: “They want me to play one more piece--only one. Do you mind? I shan’t be long!”