The two men from the world of dazzling footlights ordered drinks, paid doubly for them, made a bluff at enjoying the poor liquor, and then quietly left the _café_, and continued their walk past the warehouses, pawnshops and saloons of Front street. The next morning, when the heavy wagons were rattling over the cobble-stones of the narrow, dirty thoroughfare, and the children of the pawnbrokers were engaged in throwing "spit-balls" at the children of the saloon-keepers, "Tim Dugan's Café" was for the second time honored with the entrance of the stage-manager of the minstrel show which was to be in town the next week. This potentate had come on ahead of his company to adjust some little difficulty with the play-house owners, and now that that business had been settled, another matter of importance presented itself: the tenor soloist, no longer in his prime, had left. The manager sauntered up to the bar, rested his right elbow on the marble slab, settled his "silk" hat more comfortably on his head, shoved his left hand deep into his trousers' pocket--whereupon an attractive chinking sound could be heard--and crossed his gaitered feet. "One," he announced, and the ruddy-haired Irish lad, who had been busy washing glasses, quickly, deftly, filled a mug with frothy beer. "Ahem!" The manager puffed up his heavy chest and leaned both elbows on the bar. Then, ensued a whispered dialogue, during which Terry Flynn's laughing eyes alternately grew round with wonder and twinkled with pleasure. "Sorry!" gasped the bartender at last, "not a bit of it. Ye cin bet yer shiny, boots, an' it's me as 'll do it!" The manager, smiling with the satisfaction of having clinched an excellent bargain, made his way among the chickens, bulldogs and babies of Front street and soon left the beery atmosphere far behind him. Terry, however, kept his own council. Not until the following Monday did he give any information concerning the identity of the "swell gent" who had so strangely visited him. Then how the inhabitants of Front street rejoiced! Terry Flynn--often called "Irish" for short--redheaded Terry Flynn, who had many a time caused a quarrel to be forgotten by breaking into a song as he rattled the mugs on the bar--Terry--their Terry--was going on the stage! He would own a silk tile, and wear diamond studs--but he would sing no more for Front street. How the bony-fisted, generous men, in spite of their keen regret at losing him, rejoiced in Terry's good fortune! "Ha'n't I said, ag'in an' ag'in, as Terry could sing twicet as fine as the feller 'at sang 'atween the acks o' 'Uncle Tom's Cabin,' one time w'en I went an' seen it? Ha'n't I now?" queried a delighted teamster. "Aye, that ye 'ave, Jawn, that ye 'ave," replied a pensioned sailor, also jubilant over the fame in store for Terry.