The corner table in question was the favourite meeting place of a group of young men of the G. Selden type, who usually took possession of it at dinner time—having decided¹ that Shandy's supplied more decent food for fifty cents, or even for twenty-five, than was to be found at other places of its order. Shandy's was “about all right,” they said to each other, and patronised it accordingly, three or four of them generally dining together, with a friendly and adroit² manipulation of “portions” and “half portions” which enabled them to add variety to their bill of fare.

 

The street outside was lighted, the tide of passers-by was less full and more leisurely³ in its movements than it was during the seething⁴, working hours of daylight, but the electric cars swung past each other with whiz and clang of bell almost unceasingly, their sound being swelled⁵, at short intervals⁷, by the roar and rumbling⁸ rattle⁹ of the trains dashing by on the elevated railroad. This, however, to the frequenters of Shandy's, was the usual accompaniment of every-day New York life and was regarded as a rather cheerful sort of thing.

 

This evening the four claimants of the favourite corner table had met together earlier than usual. Jem Belter, who “hammered” a typewriter at Schwab's Brewery¹¹, Tom Wetherbee, who was “in a downtown office,” Bert Johnson, who was “out for the Delkoff,” and Nick Baumgarten, who having for some time “beaten” certain streets as assistant salesman for the same illustrious machine, had been recently elevated to a “territory” of his own, and was therefore in high spirits.

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