When anything transpired they discussed it with dazzling frankness, and
what they said of it was as free as air to the other people in the
place.
At midnight there were few people in the saloon. Patsy and his friends
still sat drinking. Two well-dressed men were at another table, smoking
cigars slowly and swinging back in their chairs. They occupied
themselves with themselves in the usual manner, never betraying by a
wink of an eyelid that they knew that other folk existed. At another
table directly behind Patsy and his companions was a slim little Cuban,
with miraculously small feet and hands, and with a youthful touch of
down upon his lip. As he lifted his cigarette from time to time his
little finger was bended in dainty fashion, and there was a green flash
when a huge emerald ring caught the light. The bartender came often with
his little brass tray. Occasionally Patsy and his two friends
quarrelled.
Once this little Cuban happened to make some slight noise and Patsy
turned his head to observe him. Then Patsy made a careless and rather
loud comment to his two friends. He used a word which is no more than
passing the time of day down in Cherry Street, but to the Cuban it was a
dagger-point. There was a harsh scraping sound as a chair was pushed
swiftly back.
The little Cuban was upon his feet. His eyes were shining with a rage
that flashed there like sparks as he glared at Patsy.
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