The roar
of the city in his ear was to him the confusion of strange tongues,
babbling heedlessly; it was the clink of coin, the voice if the city's
hopes which were to him no hopes.
He confessed himself an outcast, and his eyes from under the lowered rim
of his hat began to glance guiltily, wearing the criminal expression
that comes with certain convictions.
THE DUEL THAT WAS NOT FOUGHT
Patsy Tulligan was not as wise as seven owls, but his courage could
throw a shadow as long as the steeple of a cathedral. There were men on
Cherry Street who had whipped him five times, but they all knew that
Patsy would be as ready for the sixth time as if nothing had happened.
Once he and two friends had been away up on Eighth Avenue, far out of
their country, and upon their return journey that evening they stopped
frequently in saloons until they were as independent of their
surroundings as eagles, and cared much less about thirty days on
Blackwell's.
On Lower Sixth Avenue they paused in a saloon where there was a good
deal of lamp-glare and polished wood to be seen from the outside, and
within, the mellow light shone on much furbished brass and more polished
wood. It was a better saloon than they were in the habit of seeing, but
they did not mind it. They sat down at one of the little tables that
were in a row parallel to the bar and ordered beer. They blinked
stolidly at the decorations, the bartender, and the other customers.
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