The bartender smiled. "It's a fine thing in a man, to be after reading the books."

"Maybe so," Mr. Gross allowed, "but he doesn't have to go and recite them back to us, now does he? And while you're at it, see what that dapper gentleman down the other end is drinking, with my compliments."

"All I said is it's changing," Mr. Witherwax insisted. "I didn't say nothing about the immigrants."

"And a good thing, too," Mr. Cohan suggested as he busied himself with the bottles, "the half of them being Irish."

"Irish, sure," said Keating. "And Arab and Pakistani and…»

"Aren't Pakistanis Arabs?" said Mrs. Jonas.

"No, ma'am. No more than that Finns are French."

"That don't matter to me," insisted Mr. Witherwax. "All I said was it's not the same neighborhood it used to be."

"We don't get many of those Arabs in here," Mr. Cohan said. "But the Irish, now…»

"That's because their religion?Islam?doesn't let them drink alcohol." Keating worked at the library and in consequence had a great deal of miscellany in his head, perhaps as much as his companion, Mr. Witherwax, although, unlike the latter, he tended to keep it there and not let it go spilling about.

Mr. Cohan drew back in shock and turned to Gross. "Did you ever hear the like of it, Mr. Gross? I know there are those who cannot handle the creature, but a drink or two is a fine thing for a pleasant evening of talk." He turned to the stranger, wishing to include him in the general conversation, for Gavagan had always envisioned his establishment as much a salon as a saloon. "Isn't that right?"

The stranger's eyes came into focus and he looked around as if surprised to find himself present. "I'm sorry…?" he said.