When the bartender had set down the glasses and gone, Micky said quietly, "Slade, you know why I'm here. Do you know that story?" "Sure," said Slade, "but you don't want to ask for it here." "I know it," acquiesced Micky, producing cigars. "That's the reason I just rang the bluff of a cheap sport. I know I'm one anyway, but I don't want 'em to tumble to the fact that I write when I'm not sportin'." "Sure not," agreed Slade. "If they did, Irish, someone would get hurt, and it wouldn't be the sidewalk. Mulligan, the bartender, is soitinly a baby bouncer." "Well now, Nick," said Micky, "I want that story, and I want it right. It's gettin' early. Now you do a heart-to-heart Uncle Tom and Little Eva talk with me about the races, and by and by I'll go away. You're not in it, you know; I flash no paper and mum's the word. I just keep it in my nut, understand? Now spill it out." So Nick spilled it out and Micky absorbed his facts, sans comment; mentally registering the full details of a story that proved interesting the next day, well besprinkled with gore and full of the zest which made life worth living in the realm that was Goldberg's. Micky gave a subdued grunt of satisfaction as it was finished, his restored complacency being heightened by Nick's assurance that so far he was the sole reporter on the scene. Harkins' tip must have been a private one. Micky gloated over the prospective beat. He had it all now, and time was forging pressward. He shoved what cigars he had with him toward Nick, with an eloquent look of gratitude, and rose, moving nonchalantly toward the door, Slade following. All had been well, but one of the imbibing pair fronting the bar chanced to turn, eyeing Micky squarely. He was a gent of agility. With a couple of bounds he sentineled the doorway, barring the intended exodus. Wrathful fire gleamed in his bleared eyes; the stubble of his crimsoned face seemed not unlike the rising hackles of an enraged dog. "Speedway track, eh?" he roared. "Busted sport, eh? You little baboon, youse will be busted afore youse gets out o' here, an' dat ain't no lie neither! Mulligan, d'ye know who dis is?" "Naw!" replied Mulligan, the laconic, thrusting out an angled chin and screwing his vicious little eyes into gimlet points. "Who t' 'ell?" "He's dat new Irish Courier pup!" bellowed the obstacle, "de speckled sneak wot done my game for me last week. I told youse about it." "Youse did, Cullinan," admitted the bartender and deliberately rolled up his shirt sleeves. Cullinan's companion, too, had slouched up and scowlingly flanked his irate pard at guard. Mulligan thoughtfully emerged from behind the bar. In the sinister situation, the forcible tribute that Cullinan had just paid O'Byrn upon his professional ability failed wholly to arouse a gentle glow of satisfaction in Micky's disturbed breast. The recognition between him and Cullinan, general blackleg, had been mutual.