“I mind,” said McQuirk, slowly, “’twas in the second barrel we opened. I mind the blue piece of paper pasted on the side of it.” “We’ve got it now,” cried Riley. “’Twas that we lacked. ’Tis the water that does the trick. Everything else we had right. Hurry, man, and get two bottles of ’pollinaris from the bar, while I figure out the proportionments with me pencil.” An hour later Con strolled down the sidewalk toward Kenealy’s café. Thus faithful employees haunt, during their recreation hours, the vicinity where they labor, drawn by some mysterious attraction. A police patrol wagon stood at the side door. Three able cops were half carrying, half hustling Riley and McQuirk up its rear steps. The eyes and faces of each bore the bruises and cuts of sanguinary and assiduous conflict. Yet they whooped with strange joy, and directed upon the police the feeble remnants of their pugnacious madness. “Began fighting each other in the back room,” explained Kenealy to Con. “And singing! That was worse. Smashed everything pretty much up. But they’re good men. They’ll pay for everything. Trying to invent some new kind of cocktail, they was. I’ll see they come out all right in the morning.” Con sauntered into the back room to view the battlefield. As he went through the hall Katherine was just coming down the stairs. “Good evening again, Mr. Lantry,” said she. “And is there no news from the weather yet?” “Still threatens r-rain,” said Con, slipping past with red in his smooth, pale cheek. Riley and McQuirk had indeed waged a great and friendly battle. Broken bottles and glasses were everywhere. The room was full of alcohol fumes; the floor was variegated with spirituous puddles. On the table stood a 32-ounce glass graduated measure. In the bottom of it were two tablespoonfuls of liquid—a bright golden liquid that seemed to hold the sunshine a prisoner in its auriferous depths. Con smelled it. He tasted it. He drank it. As he returned through the hall Katherine was just going up the stairs. “No news yet, Mr. Lantry?” she asked with her teasing laugh. Con lifted her clear from the floor and held her there. “The news is,” he said, “that we’re to be married.” “Put me down, sir!” she cried indignantly, “or I will— Oh, Con, where, oh, wherever did you get the nerve to say it?” A HARLEM TRAGEDY Harlem. Mrs. Fink had dropped into Mrs. Cassidy’s flat one flight below. “Ain’t it a beaut?” said Mrs. Cassidy. She turned her face proudly for her friend Mrs. Fink to see. One eye was nearly closed, with a great, greenish-purple bruise around it. Her lip was cut and bleeding a little and there were red finger-marks on each side of her neck. “My husband wouldn’t ever think of doing that to me,” said Mrs. Fink, concealing her envy.