They patronized the first saloon they came to, which proved to be a rather disreputable-appearing sailors’ resort. Lynch and Ditson ordered whisky, but Hal called for absinthe.
“We don’t have none of dat here,” said the barkeeper. “Dem fancy drinks don’t go wit’ our customers.”
“Then I suppose I’ll have to take the same as my friends,” murmured Du Boise.
The whisky was of the vilest sort, and he shuddered and gasped after it had passed down his throat.
“A man who can drink that can stand anything,” he said, as he paid the bill.
In spite of the fiery drink they had swallowed, their blood remained chill and sluggish, and a terrible load seemed weighting down their hearts. Ditson could not help thinking of Dick Merriwell lying beneath the dark waters of the harbor. The gruesome vision haunted him, and finally he fiercely exclaimed:
“Let’s go where we can get some decent whisky. Confound it all, I’m frozen clean to my marrow.”
“Where’ll we go?” inquired Du Boise.
“Let’s go to Fred’s.”
“And let’s get off this dark street,” said Lynch, who had been casting occasional glances over his shoulders. “I can’t shake off the feeling that some one is following us.”