The man spoken to seemed so busy that he paid no attention to the question.
“Kelley! Kelley!” Frank mentally exclaimed, taking good note of the man who had been called that. “This must be the Kelley Rafferty directed Hodge to see.”
He felt that the scent was growing hot.
McGinty did not return, and two or three men went out to see what had become of him. They came back carrying the man Frank had kicked through the door.
“He’s done,” one of them said. “Found him lying outside, and he said he couldn’t get up.”
“Well, why in blazes did you bring him in here?” shouted one of the barkeepers. “Take him into the back room, now.”
As McGinty was carried along he saw Frank.
“Say, young fellow,” he feebly asked, “do your legs run by steam? I was kicked by a mule once, but that wasn’t a patch to this!”
Then they bore him into the back room.
Much to his dismay, Frank found that this little incident had sufficed to draw attention to him. Again and again he was urged to drink. At length, in order to get up to the bar and find a chance to speak to Kelley, he consented to take a plain seltzer.