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"If it comes to closing saloons, two can play at that game."
"Who is yer, anyway?" The man came out from behind the bar, squaring his
shoulders in an ugly manner.
"My name's Stirling. Peter Stirling."
The man looked at him with interest. "How'll yer close my place?"
"Get evidence against you, and prosecute you."
"Dat ain't de way."
"It will be my way."
"Wot yer got against me?"
"Nothing. But I intend to see Moriarty have fair play. You want to fight
on the square too. You're not a man to hit a fellow in the dark."
Peter was not flattering the man. He had measured him and was telling
him the result of that measure. He told it, too, in a way that made the
other man realize the opinion behind the words.
"Come on," said Blunkers, good-naturedly.
They went over to the court, and a whispered colloquy took place between
the justice and the bartender.
"That's all right, Mr. Stirling," presently said the judge. "Clerk,
strike Dennis Moriarty's fine off the list.


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