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Updated: May 20, 2025
A feller gets his face punched down at Mike Lonigan's or out at the Dutchman's by the tracks, and the whole town talks of it, but no one ever draws a gun; the feller that gets his face punched spits out his teeth and goes on about his business, and that's the end of it except for the talk; but where I've been there'd be murder in about the time it takes to shift a quid!" And Mr.
"I have been down to Lonigan's saloon," faltered Joe, his courage going from him at sight of the gambler. "What took you there?" asked Gilmore angrily. "Don't you get enough to drink at my place?" "Lots to drink, boss, but it's mostly too rich for my blood. I ain't used to bein' so pampered." "Come along with me!" said Gilmore briefly. "Where to, boss?" asked Montgomery, in feeble protest.
Say, it was a hell of a defense he put up, and I had a friend who was willin' to swear he'd seen me in the alley back of Mike Lonigan's saloon cleaning spittoons when old man Murphy said I was in his chicken house; Moxlow said he wouldn't touch my case except on its merits, and the only merit it had was that friend, ready and willin' to swear to anything!"
Because it is straight, every damn word of it, boss." And as if to give emphasis to his words the handy-man swung out a grimy fist and dropped it into an equally grimy palm. "What did you do after that?" asked Gilmore. "Not much. I laid low and presently lifted my sack of coal out and ducked around to Lonigan's saloon. I went in there by the back door and left my sack leanin' against the building.
He had fooled them both; he, Joe Montgomery, had done this, and by a very master stroke of cunning had tied the judge's hands. But as he shuffled down the street he saw the welcoming lights of Lonigan's saloon and suddenly remembered there was good hard money in his ragged pockets. He would have just one drink and then go home to his old woman.
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