Durkin’s heart beat almost normally once more. There stood Eddie Crawford, leisurely peeling a lemon, with his lips pursed up in a whistle. One hungry curb-broker was taking a hurried and belated free lunch from the cheese-and-cracker end of the counter. Durkin stared at his old friend, with a blank and forbidding face. Then he drooped one eyelid momentarily. It was only the insignificant little twitch of a minor muscle, and yet the thought occurred to him how marvellous it was, that one little quiver of an eyelid could retranslate a situation, could waken strange fires in one’s blood, and countless thoughts in one’s head. “What will you have, gentlemen?” he asked, easily, briskly. “Scotch highball!” said the officer on his right. “Give me a gin rickey,” said the officer on his left. “A silver fizz,” said Durkin, between them. That, he knew, would take a little longer to mix. Then there came a moment of silence. Durkin’s long, thin fingers were drumming anxiously and restlessly on the polished wood. The busy waiter, with a nervous little up-jerk of the head, gave these restlessly tapping fingers a passing glance. Something about them carried him back many months, to his operating-desk at the Postal-Union. He listened again. Then he bent down over his glass, for he was mixing the silver fizz first. It was the telegrapher’s double “i” that he had heard repeated and repeated by those carelessly tapping fingers, and then a further phrase that he knew meant “attention!” Yet he worked away, impassive, unmoved, while with his slender little sugar-spoon he signalled back his answer, on the rim of his mixing-glass. “Get a move on, boss,” said O’Reilly, impatiently. “Sure,” said the waiter, abstractedly, quite unruffled, for his ear was a little out of practice, and he wanted to make sure just what those finger-nails tapping on the mahogany meant. And this is what he read: “Five—hundred—dollars—spot—cash—for—a—knock—out—to—each—of— these—two!” “Too—expensive!” answered the sugar-spoon on the tumbler, as it stirred the mixture. “I—would—have—to—migrate.” “Then—make—it—a—thousand,” answered the mahogany. “I’m pinched.” “Done,” said the spoon, as the silver fizz was put down on the bar. Then came the gin rickey and the highball. “They’ll—get—it—strong!” drummed the idle bartender on a faucet of his soda-fountain. A moment later the three glasses that stood before Durkin and his guardians were taken up in three waiting hands. “Well, here’s to you,” cried the prisoner, as he gulped down his drink—for that melodramatic little silence had weighed on his nerves a bit. Then he wiped his mouth, slowly and thoughtfully, and waited. “But here’s a table in the corner,” he said at last, meaningly. “Suppose I count out that race money that’s coming to you two?” O’Reilly nodded, the other said “Sure!” and the three men moved over to the table, and sat down.