“Wot der yer mean?” angrily inquired the man. “If it comes to closing saloons, two can play at that game.” “Who is yer, anyway?” The man came out from behind the bar, squaring his shoulders in an ugly manner. “My name’s Stirling. Peter Stirling.” The man looked at him with interest. “How’ll yer close my place?” “Get evidence against you, and prosecute you.” “Dat ain’t de way.” “It will be my way.” “Wot yer got against me?” “Nothing. But I intend to see Moriarty have fair play. You want to fight on the square too. You’re not a man to hit a fellow in the dark.” Peter was not flattering the man. He had measured him and was telling him the result of that measure. He told it, too, in a way that made the other man realize the opinion behind the words. “Come on,” said Blunkers, good-naturedly. They went over to the court, and a whispered colloquy took place between the justice and the bartender. “That’s all right, Mr. Stirling,” presently said the judge. “Clerk, strike Dennis Moriarty’s fine off the list.” “Thank you,” said Peter to the saloon-keeper. “If I can ever do a turn for you, let me know it.” “Dat’s hunky,” said the man, and they parted. Peter went out and walked into the region of the National Milk Company, but this time he went to the brewery. He found Mr. Bohlmann, and told him the story, asking his advice at the end. “Dondt you vool von minute mit dod Edelheim. I dells you vot I do. I harf choost a blace vacant down in Zender Streed, and your frient he shall it haf.” So they chatted till all the details had been arranged. Dennis was to go in as caretaker, bound to use only Bohlmann’s beer, with a percentage on that, and the profits on all else. He was to pay the rent, receiving a sub-lease from Bohlmann, who was only a lesee himself, and to give a chattel mortgage on the stock supplied him. Finally he was to have the right of redemption of stock, lease, and good-will at any time within five years, on making certain payments. “You draw up der babers, Misder Stirling, and send der bill to me. Ve vill give der yoonger a chance,” the brewer said. When Dennis called the next day, he was “spacheless” at the new developments. He wrung Peter’s hand. “Arrah, what can Oi say to yez?” he exclaimed finally. Then having found something, he quickly continued: “Now, Patsy Blunkers, lookout for yezself. It’s the divil Oi’ll give yez in the primary this year.” He begged Peter to come down the opening night, and help to “celebrate the event.” “Thank you,” said Peter, “but I don’t think I will.” “Shure,” said Dennis, “yez needn’t be afraid it won’t be orderly. It’s myself can do the hittin’, an’ the b’ys know it.” “My mother brought me up,” Peter explained, “not to go into saloons, and when I came to New York I promised her, if I ever did anything she had taught me not to, that I would write her about it. She would hardly understand this visit, and it might make her very unhappy.”