Now, the south side of the thoroughfare just mentioned consists chiefly of warehouses and saloons, the north side chiefly of saloons and pawnshops. On summer days the street squirms with chickens, bulldogs and babies; but on the warm evenings, when the pawnshops and the warehouses are closed, when the saloons are doing a lucrative business, then the chickens roost on the back fences, the bulldogs doze lazily on the stone flaggings, and in the stuffy little sleeping apartments above the saloons the children of the saloon-keepers dream of the envy which, by means of delicious chili-sauce sandwiches, they will create the next day among the children of the pawnbrokers. The two men were now approaching the most prosperous saloon in the street. Streams of light, coming from both above and below the little green baize door, shone on a swinging signboard. "Tim Dugan's Café," the gilt letters informed any who were unacquainted with the neighborhood. Boorish men could be heard calling jocularly for more beer, and the constant slamming of the cash drawer mingled with the clinking of heavy glasses. "A song! It's time fer a chune!" called a raucous voice. "Aha, yer right there, it's Terry fer us," acquiesced one of the crowd. "Terry! Terry! it's oop on the table fer ye, Terry." The cry was accompanied by much loud laughter and the shuffling of heavy boots. Labor-hardened hands clapped approval, and then for a moment there was silence. "'A sailor's wife a sailor's star shall be.'" The sweet, though untrained tenor voice, rang high and clear. "'Yo-ho-oh, boyoys, ho--'" The two fashionably dressed men stopped in front of the short door. "Jove! what a voice!" the manager breathed. "'A long, long life to my sweet wife!'" No sound interrupted the ringing sailor ballad. "Let's go in and have a drink," suggested the press-agent, when the song was finished. As unobtrusively as possible the two men entered. "More! more!" the appreciative, if unschooled, audience was demanding, and in the clatter of applause the strangers were unnoticed. "'I have come to say good-bye, Dolly Grey.'" The then new popular song thrilled the listeners with its martial rhythm, as the plaintive cadences of the beautiful voice rang in their ears. "'Good-bye, Dolly, I must leave you.'" The singer's glance fell on the new listeners. His merry eyes wavered and his face flushed until it became as red as his curly hair. He stopped short in the chorus. "I guess it's me that's been yowling anough fer tunight, byes," he mumbled, as he climbed down from the table and, sliding behind the counter, donned the white apron which proclaimed him a bartender. "Wy, Terry, wat's the matter wit ye? We got a have one more afore ye quit." But Terry shook his head vigorously in an emphatic "no," as he rapidly cleaned the thick glasses.