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Updated: May 15, 2025
He peered into the saloon windows to see if Petey McGuff was there, but did not find him. He went to the street on which he had boarded in the hope that he might do something for the girl who had been going wrong. The tenement had been torn down, with blocks of others, to make way for a bridge-terminal, and he saw the vision of the city's pitiless progress.
Next noon as the S.S. Panama pulled out of her ice-lined dock Carl saw an old man shivering on the wharf and frantically waving good-by Petey McGuff. The S.S. Panama had passed Watling's Island and steamed into story-land.
And, oh yes, he was going to beat Petey McGuff that evening, and get back much of the belligerent self-respect which he had been drawing off into schooners with the beer. Old Petey rolled in at two minutes past eleven, warmed his hands at the gas-stove, poked disapprovingly at the pretzels on the free-lunch counter, and bawled at Carl: "Hey, keep away from dat cash-register!
He was going to Panama because he had read in a Sunday newspaper of the Canal's marvels of engineering and jungle. He had avoided making friends. There was no one to give him farewell when he emerged from the muck. But he had one task to perform to settle with the Saloon Snob. Petey McGuff was the name of this creature. He was an oldish and wicked man, born on the Bowery.
Every evening from eleven to midnight Petey McGuff sat at the round table in the mildewed corner at the end of the bar, drinking old-fashioned whisky cocktails made with Bourbon, playing Canfield, staring at the nude models pasted on the milky surface of an old mirror, and teasing Carl. "Here, boy, come 'ere an' wipe off de whisky you spilled.... Come on, you tissy-cat.
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