A man
half-asleep leaned back in a chair by the stove with his chin on his
breast. Two rough-looking men at a table who were talking in low tones
pretended not to notice my entrance, but their furtive glances gave
more eloquent evidence of their interest than the closest stare.
The barkeeper eyed me with apparent openness. I called for a glass of
wine, partly as an excuse for my visit, and partly to revive my shaken
spirits.
"Any trouble about here to-night?" I asked in my most affable tone.
The barkeeper looked at me with cold suspicion.
"No, sir," he said shortly. "This is the quietest neighborhood in
town."
"I should think there would be a disturbance every time that liquor was
sold," was my private comment, as I got the aftertaste of the dose. But
I merely wished him good night as I paid for the drink, and sauntered
out.
I promptly got into my doorway before any one could reach the street to
see whither I went, and listened to a growling comment and a mirthless
laugh that followed my departure. Hardly had I gained my concealment
when the swinging doors of the saloon opened cautiously, and a face
peered out into the semi-darkness. With a muttered curse it went back,
and I heard the barkeeper's voice in some jest about a failure to be
"quick enough to catch flies."
Once more in the room to wait till morning should give me a chance to
work, I looked about the dingy place with a heart sunk to the lowest
depths. I was alone in the face of this mystery.
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