“That’s what!” growled Mullin, with a surly grin. “I saw you smash one of them chaps under the ear and drop him into the corner. They squealed over losing a little money. I’ve got some of it in my clothes. Come over to Pete Daley’s and I’ll blow you off.”
“Over to Pete’s it is,” said McCord, in satisfaction. “I was jest going to invite you over dere meself. Dere’s something doing, Tapper. I want ter find Skip Billings.”
“Skip hangs around Pete’s most of the time.”
Together they proceeded to Daley’s barroom, which was well filled with disreputable-looking and thirsty individuals. Neither of them noted that as they entered the young hobo followed at their heels, almost knocking against them.
Skip Billings, who had a broken nose and was thoroughly vicious in his appearance, was leaning against one end of the bar. McCord and Mullin joined him.
“This is on me,” said Mullin, as he ordered beer.
“I beg your pardon, gents!” exclaimed the hobo, as he seemed to lose his balance and stumbled in among them. “Awful slippery floor! Don’t waste your money. I will pay for the suds.”
“Well, dat saves you a swipe on de jaw,” said McCord. “You want ter be careful about butting inter dis bunch or you may git your block knocked off.”
The hobo looked them over in an interesting manner.
“One, two, three,” he counted, motioning toward each one of them with his finger. “Mebbe there’s enough of you to do it.”