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Updated: May 25, 2025
"You bet it ain't gonna be there a great while!" horned in the outraged bartender. "You put that bottle back on the bar!" "Why, I gave you a dollar," said Racey, nervously, hesitantly, "and you kept the change. I supposed, of course, you was selling me the bottle." "You supposed wrong!" As he spoke the bartender's right hand moved toward the shelf that Racey knew must be under the top of the bar.
"I, a peaceful, law-abiding citizen of this glorious Commonwealth, a free an' equal member of a liberty-loving nation, a nation whose standard is, now and forever, 'Gimme liberty or gimme det', a nation that stands for all the conceivable benefits that mankind may enjoy, a nation that scintillates pyrotechnically over the prostitution of power " Bang! went the bartender's fist on the counter.
"That dollar was for yore two drinks." "You mean to say yo're charging four bits apiece for those drinks!" "Shore I am." As yet the bartender's hand had remained beneath the bar top. "But two bits is the regular price," objected Racey, weakly. "Four bits is the price to you," was the truculent statement, sticking out his chin. "Put that bottle back on the bar!"
Now, what'll you have?" "Nothing, thank you." "Oh, you needn't thank me. I didn't offer to give you a drink. What do you want, anyhow?" "Have you got a directory?" "No; we don't keep one. We don't care where our customers live. All we want is their money." Herbert did not fancy the bartender's tone or manner; but felt that it would be foolish to get angry.
"Let us pause to consider the shameful an' burning indignity perpetrated upon us to-day!" continued Fisher, unheeding the bartender's words.
It was Mick Kennedy who spoke, but it was Mick transformed. "Rankin!" The great veins of the bartender's neck swelled; the red face congested until it became all but purple. "No! We won't go near him! He'd put a stop to the whole thing. What we want is men, not cowards!" A moment only the silence lasted. "All right," agreed Stetson. "Have another, boys! We'll drop Rankin!"
They were once as you are, and the bartender KNOWS that the chances are all in favor of your being eventually like one of them. Even like the poor, thin, nervous drinker of hard whiskey, who once wondered why men drink too much. The bartender's procession is a sad one, and you who still think yourself safe are the saddest atom in the line, for you are there without sufficient excuse.
His eyes met the bartender's for a second and he nodded casually. "How's everything?" he asked in the customary inconsequential manner of casual acquaintanceship. "Fine," said Blackie in a tone of equal casualness. "Couldn't be better."
The police are easy enough to fool; but what do the newspapers do? They send a lot of pin-head reporters around to the scene; and they make for the nearest saloon and have beer while they take photos of the bartender's oldest daughter in evening dress, to print as the fiancée of the young man in the tenth story, who thought he heard a noise below on the night of the murder.
Now he revolved the tobacco with a furtive tongue and spat thickly upon the floor. Without removing his eyes from the two aforementioned gentlemen Racey reached for the bartender's gun. "Hadn't oughta be trusted with firearms," he observed, pleasantly, referring to what lay behind the bar. "Too venturesome. Yeah."
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