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Square.

      McMurdo pushed open the swinging door of the saloon and made his way amid the crowd of men within, through an atmosphere blurred with tobacco smoke and heavy with the smell of spirits. The place was brilliantly lighted, and the huge, heavily gilt mirrors upon every wall reflected and multiplied the garish illumination. There were several bartenders in their shirt sleeves, hard at work mixing drinks for the loungers who fringed the broad, brass-trimmed counter.

      At the far end, with his body resting upon the bar and a cigar stuck at an acute angle from the corner of his mouth, stood a tall, strong, heavily built man who could be none other than the famous McGinty himself. He was a black-maned giant, bearded to the cheek-bones, and with a shock of raven hair which fell to his collar. His complexion was as swarthy as that of an Italian, and his eyes were of a strange dead black, which, combined with a slight squint, gave them a particularly sinister appearance.

      All else in the man—his noble proportions, his fine features, and his frank bearing—fitted in with that jovial, man-to-man manner which he affected. Here, one would say, is a bluff, honest fellow, whose heart would be sound however rude his outspoken words might seem. It was only when those dead, dark eyes, deep and remorseless, were turned upon a man that he shrank within himself, feeling that he was face to face with an infinite possibility of latent evil, with a strength and courage and cunning behind it which made it a thousand times more deadly.

      Having had a good look at his man, McMurdo elbowed his way forward with his usual careless audacity, and pushed himself through the little group of courtiers who were fawning upon the powerful boss, laughing uproariously at the smallest of his jokes. The young stranger's bold gray eyes looked back fearlessly through their glasses at the deadly black ones which turned sharply upon him.

      "Well, young man, I can't call your face to mind."

      "I'm new here, Mr. McGinty."

      "You are not so new that you can't give a gentleman his proper title."

      "He's Councillor McGinty, young man," said a voice from the group.

      "I'm sorry, Councillor. I'm strange to the ways of the place. But I was advised to see you."

      "Well, you see me. This is all there is. What d'you think of me?"

      "Well, it's early days. If your heart is as big as your body, and your soul as fine as your face, then I'd ask for nothing better," said McMurdo.

      "By Gar! you've got an Irish tongue in your head anyhow," cried the saloon-keeper, not quite certain whether to humour this audacious visitor or to stand upon his dignity.

      "So you are good enough to pass my appearance?"

      "Sure," said McMurdo.

      "And you were told to see me?"

      "I was."

      "And who told you?"

      "Brother Scanlan of Lodge 341, Vermissa. I drink your health Councillor, and to our better acquaintance." He raised a glass with which he had been served to his lips and elevated his little finger as he drank it.

      McGinty, who had been watching him narrowly, raised his thick black eyebrows. "Oh, it's like that, is it?" said he. "I'll have to look a bit closer into this, Mister—"

      "McMurdo."

      "A bit closer, Mr. McMurdo; for we don't take folk on trust in these parts, nor believe all we're told neither. Come in here for a moment, behind the bar."

      There was a small room there, lined with barrels. McGinty carefully closed the door, and then seated himself on one of them, biting thoughtfully on his cigar and surveying his companion with those disquieting eyes. For a couple of minutes he sat in complete silence. McMurdo bore the inspection cheerfully, one hand in his coat pocket, the other twisting his brown moustache. Suddenly McGinty stooped and produced a wicked-looking revolver.

      "See here, my joker," said he, "if I thought you were playing any game on us, it would be short work for you."

      "This is a strange welcome," McMurdo answered with some dignity, "for the Bodymaster of a lodge of Freemen to give to a stranger brother."

      "Ay, but it's just that same that you have to prove," said McGinty, "and God help you if you fail! Where were you made?"

      "Lodge 29, Chicago."

      "When?"

      "June 24, 1872."

      "What Bodymaster?"

      "James H. Scott."

      "Who is your district ruler?"

      "Bartholomew Wilson."

      "Hum! You seem glib enough in your tests. What are you doing here?"

      "Working, the same as you—but a poorer job."

      "You have your back answer quick enough."

      "Yes, I was always quick of speech."

      "Are you quick of action?"

      "I have had that name among those that knew me best."

      "Well, we may try you sooner than you think. Have you heard anything of the lodge in these parts?"

      "I've heard that it takes a man to be a brother."

      "True for you, Mr. McMurdo. Why did you leave Chicago?"

      "I'm damned if I tell you that!"

      McGinty opened his eyes. He was not used to being answered in such fashion, and it amused him. "Why won't you tell me?"

      "Because no brother may tell another a lie."

      "Then the truth is too bad to tell?"

      "You can put it that way if you like."

      "See here, mister, you can't expect me, as Bodymaster, to pass into the lodge a man for whose past he can't answer."

      McMurdo looked puzzled. Then he took a worn newspaper cutting from an inner pocket.

      "You wouldn't squeal on a fellow?" said he.

      "I'll wipe my hand across your face if you say such words to me!" cried McGinty hotly.

      "You are right, Councillor," said McMurdo meekly. "I should apologize. I spoke without thought. Well, I know that I am safe in your hands. Look at that clipping."

      McGinty glanced his eyes over the account of the shooting of one Jonas Pinto, in the Lake Saloon, Market Street, Chicago, in the New Year week of 1874.

      "Your work?" he asked, as he handed back the paper.

      McMurdo nodded.

      "Why did you shoot him?"

      "I was helping Uncle Sam to make dollars. Maybe mine were not as good gold as his, but they looked as well and were cheaper to make. This man Pinto helped me to shove the queer—"

      "To do what?"

      "Well, it means to pass the dollars out into circulation. Then he said he would split. Maybe he did split. I didn't wait to see. I just killed him and lighted out for the coal country."

      "Why the coal country?"

      "'Cause I'd read in the papers that they weren't too particular in those parts."

      McGinty laughed. "You were first a coiner and then a murderer, and you came to these parts because you thought you'd be welcome."

      "That's about the size of it," McMurdo answered.

      "Well, I guess you'll go far. Say, can you make those dollars yet?"

      McMurdo took half a dozen from his pocket. "Those never passed the Philadelphia mint," said he.

      "You don't say!" McGinty held them to the light in his enormous hand, which was hairy as a gorilla's. "I can see no difference. Gar! you'll be a mighty useful brother, I'm thinking! We can do with a bad man or two among us, Friend McMurdo: for there are times when we have to take our own part. We'd soon be against the wall if we didn't shove back at those

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