The barkeeper made a gesture, pointing to the back room. "May we see him?" "I s'pose so." And again, with a jerk of the thumb, the back room was indicated. The two walked in. It was a small room, meanly furnished, with a square table in the centre. Sitting by it were three men. Two were drinking beer--one a small, thin man; the other a red-faced specimen with rotund outline. The third and biggest was smoking a briarwood pipe. He was a heavily built man with immense shoulders square jaw, and low, wrinkled forehead; deep under his bushy eyebrows were two close-set, twinkling gray eyes, which were turned on the visitors with a hostile stare. "Is Mr. Michael Shay here?" asked Hopkins. "I'm Mike Shay," said the smoker, without rising or removing his pipe; "what do ye want?" There was a sullen defiance in the tone that showed resentment at the different dress and manner of the strangers. "We have come to ask for your support for the club we are going to open in the old house down the street." "Support nuthin'," was the gracious reply. Hopkins began to explain that this was not to be a rival show--no drinks would be sold; the idea was merely to found a place of amusement for the people. The only effect on the boss was to evoke a contemptuous "E-r-r-r!" and an injunction, in Chicago vernacular, to get out of that as soon as they liked--or sooner. And, by way of punctuation, he turned to expectorate copiously, but with imperfect precision at a box of sawdust which was littered with cigar stumps. The interview was over--he wished them to understand that. He turned to his companions. Hartigan felt that it was his chance now. He began: "See here, now, Michael Shay; you're an Irishman and I'm an Irishman----" "Oh, g'wan!" and Shay rose to walk out the back way. As he did so, Jim noticed fully, for the first time, the huge shoulders, the strong, bowed legs, the gorilla-like arms; and the changing memory of another day grew clear and definitely placed. There could be no doubt about it now; this was bow-legged Mike, the teamster of seven years before. At once, a different colour was given to Jim's thought and manner; no longer cautious, respectful, doubtful, he began in his own more boisterous way, "Say, Mike. I have a different matter to talk about now." Mike stopped and stared. Jim proceeded. "Were you ever at Links, Ontario?" "Maybe I was, an' maybe I wasn't. What's that to you?" "Well, do you remember licking a young fellow there for jerking the roof log out of the hotel with your masting team of oxen?" "Bejabers, I do that"; and Mike's eyes twinkled for the first time with a pleasant look. "Well, Mike, I am that fellow; an' that's what ye gave me." Jim raised his chin and showed an irregular scar.