In Flynn's was the eminent Chuck Connors, his head on his arm and his arm on a table. Intoxicated? Perish the thought! Merely taking his usual forty winks after dinner, which repast had consisted of four beef-stews. Tricker gave him a facetious thump on the back, but he woke in a bilious mood, full of haughtiness and cold reserve. There is a notable feature in Flynn's. The East Side is in its way artistic. Most of the places are embellished with pictures done on the walls, presumably by the old monsters of the _Police News_. On the rear wall of Flynn's is a portrait of Washington on a violent white horse. The Father of his Country is in conventional blue and buff, waving a vehement blade. “Who is it?” demanded Proprietor Flynn of the artist, when first brought to bay by the violent one on the horse. “Who is it?” retorted the artist indignantly. “Who should it be but Washin'ton, the Father of his Country?” “Washin'ton?” repeated Flynn. “Who's Washin'ton?” “Don't you know who Washin'ton is? Say, you ought to go to night school! Washin'ton's th' duck who frees this country from th' English.” “An' he bate th' English, did he? I can well be-lave it! Yez can see be th' face of him he's a brave man.” Then, following a rapt silence: “Say, I'll tell ye what! Paint me a dead Englishman right down there be his horse's fut, an' I'll give ye foor dollars more.” The generous offer was accepted, and the foreground enriched with a dead grenadier. Coming out of Flynn's, Tricker went briefly into the Chinese Theater. The pig-tailed audience, sitting on the backs of the chairs with their feet in the wooden seats, were enjoying the performance hugely. Tricker listened to the dialogue but a moment; it was unsatisfactory and sounded like a cat-fight. In finding his way out of Doyers Street, Tricker stopped for a moment in a little doggery from which came the tump-tump of a piano and the scuffle of a dance. The room, not thirty feet long, was cut in two by a ramshackle partition. On the grimy wall hung a placard which carried this moderate warning: [Illustration: 0018] The management seemed to be in the hands of a morose personage, as red as a boiled lobster, who acted behind the bar. The piano was of that flat, tin-pan tone which bespeaks the veteran. It was drummed upon by a bleary virtuoso, who at sight of Tricker--for whose favor he yearned--began banging forth a hurly-burly that must have set on edge the teeth of every piano in the vicinity. The darky who was dancing redoubled his exertions. Altogether, Tricker's entrance was not without _éclat_. Not that he seemed impressed as, flinging himself into a chair, he listlessly called for apollinaris. “What do youse pay him?” asked Tricker of the boiled barkeeper, indicating as he did so the hardworking colored person. “Pad-money!”--with a slighting glance. “Pad-money; an' it's twict too much.” Pad-money means pay for a bed.