Flanagan's parting benedictions in the moonlit
street. He did not pause till he was at the door of the oyster-room.
He paused then, to make way for a tipsy company of four, who reeled
out,--the gaslight from the bar-room on the edges of their sodden,
distorted faces,--giving three shouts and a yell, as they slammed the
door behind them.
He pushed after a party that was just entering. They went at once for
a drink to the upper end of the room, where a rowdy crew, with cigars
in their mouths, and liquor in their hands, stood before the bar, in
a knotty wrangle concerning some one who was killed. Where is the
keeper? O, there he is, mixing hot brandy punch for two! Here, you,
sir, go up quietly, and tell Mr. Rollins Dr. Renton wants to see him.
The waiter came back presently to say Mr. Rollins would be right along.
Twenty-five minutes past twelve. Oyster trade nearly over.
Gaudy-curtained booths on the left all empty but two. Oyster-openers
and waiters--three of them in all--nearly done for the night, and two
of them sparring and scuffling behind a pile of oysters on the trough,
with the colored print of the great prize fight between Tom Hyer and
Yankee Sullivan, in a veneered frame above them on the wall.
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