CHAPTER XXXV.
ANOTHER COMPACT.
The light from one dingy and dirty window shone into the place. Where the light of the window fell on it was a rough table, about which four persons had been sitting. Just now one of them was standing, while another still lay on the floor, having raised himself to his elbow, but without daring to rise. The one on the floor had been knocked down by the one who was standing.
On the table were cards, money, and two bottles of whisky. There were no glasses to drink from. These men drank directly from the bottle.
Rough-looking fellows they were. Plainly, at a glance, they were young thugs of the city slums.
They had been gambling for money. The cards were scattered carelessly, as they had been dropped when the sudden quarrel began over the game.
The fellow standing was six feet tall, with broad shoulders, thick, muscular arms, deep chest, heavy legs, and the face of the genuine young ruffian. His jaw was square, protruding, and brutal. Still, in a certain way, there was something handsome about him.
At a glance Snodgrass knew that man was Buster Bill. No one could doubt that he was the leader of the gang.
When the door opened, and Snodgrass appeared before the startled eyes of the gang, they turned and glared at him.
“I beg your pardon, gentlemen,” said the college man. “I am looking for William Riley.”
“The blazes you are!” said Buster Bill. “Who in thunder are you?”