plete failure after all. As he turned his steps in the direction of the town his mind was wholly engrossed with the events of the past two hours. How Aunt Mary did hate Diablo. Had the girl noticed how badly his clothes fit him in comparison with McCoy's? Why had Jack appeared so grouchy?
He stopped short in his descent of the hill road as he saw a man walking unsteadily toward him. Moving to one side he watched the drunken fisherman stumble on, heard the low mumbling of his voice. Then the moonlight fell full upon the man's face.
It was Boris, the crazy Russian.
CHAPTER XVI
THE BAITED PAWN
Of all the many saloons that made up Legonia's water-front the "Red Paint" was the favorite resort among the alien fishermen. The universal popularity of the establishment was due mainly to three causes. The boss owned the place and paid off there between moons. Credit was freely given to all fishermen in good standing, and thirdly, Mascola's emporium enjoyed full police protection.
During the evening when Gregory made his first call at the Lang hill the tide of revelry at the "Red Paint" was at the flood. It was pay-day and the boss was in high good humor. Either occurrence was always good for a number of rounds of free drinks. But when Mascola was happy on pay-day, the liberality of the "Red Paint" was indeed prodigal.
And Mascola was happy. Within the frosted glass enclosure that marked off his saloon-office from the bar, the Italian sat at his desk in a genial glow of good humor. The glow was purely physical, superinduced by the rapidly disappearing contents of the slim-nosed bottle which stood at his elbow. The good humor was due to other causes.