Quincannon
“One of the lighted buildings below was the Reception Saloon; but Quincannon, riding outside in spite of the weather, paid no attention to its beckoning glow. Once he would have marked the nearness of the Reception with keen anticipation, but for almost a year now he had done his public drinking in Hoolihan’s Irish Pub, south of Market, where the liquor was cheaper and the patrons more interested in their drinks than in their drinking companions.
When the car slowed for its Market Street terminu...s, Quincannon dropped off. It was a chill night, with a sharp wind that slashed in from the Bay, and he drew up the collar of his greatcoat. But he scarcely felt the cold. The whiskey he had taken in his rooms on Leavenworth still warmed him like a banked fire.
He walked swiftly through the light rain, down Market in the direction of the Ferry Building — a big man, dark-haired under his derby hat, with a heavy gray-shot beard and an unsmiling countenance that gave him, falsely, the look of a freebooter.MoreLess
When the car slowed for its Market Street terminu...s, Quincannon dropped off. It was a chill night, with a sharp wind that slashed in from the Bay, and he drew up the collar of his greatcoat. But he scarcely felt the cold. The whiskey he had taken in his rooms on Leavenworth still warmed him like a banked fire.
He walked swiftly through the light rain, down Market in the direction of the Ferry Building — a big man, dark-haired under his derby hat, with a heavy gray-shot beard and an unsmiling countenance that gave him, falsely, the look of a freebooter.MoreLess
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