Publisher's Synopsis
Martin is the barkeeper of an East Side hotel not a good hotel at all and flourishes as a sporting person of much emphasis. Martin, in passing, is at the head of the dog-fighting brotherhood. I often talk with Martin and love him very much. Last week I visited Martin's bar. There was "nothin' doin'," to quote from Martin. We talked of fighting men, a subject near to Martin, he having fought three prize fights himself. Martin boasted himself as still being "an even break wit' any rough and tumble scrapper in d' bunch." "Come here," said Martin, in course of converse; "come here; I'll show you a bute." Martin opened a door to the room back of the bar. As we entered a pink white bull terrier, with black spots about the eyes, raced across to fawn on Martin. The terrier's black toenails, bright and hard as agate, made a vast clatter on the ash floor.
