Thus it was that, year by year, Boss McGinty's diamond pins
became more obtrusive, his gold chains more weighty across a more
gorgeous vest, and his saloon stretched farther and farther,
until it threatened to absorb one whole side of the Market
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.
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