The bartender, an old acquaintance, ventured to protest.
“Look here, Rafe,” he said, “you’re goin’ it too strong. Better let up a little, old man.”
“Oh, this ain’t fer me,” answered Bassett, laughing grimly. “I’m givin’ a little blow-out to-night. This is fer the company,” and putting a bottle in each coat-pocket, he hurried from the place.
The bartender gazed after him speculatively, for there was a strangeness in his manner, a sort of menace, as of a man who has thrown down the gauntlet to society, regardless of the consequences, but other customers demanded attention, and the bartender soon forgot all about the incident. Could he have followed Bassett, he would have been more and more surprised; for the latter’s path did not lead him home, nor to any place suggestive of a social function. Instead, he turned down the nearest alley, came out upon the railroad track and followed it toward the river. Once he passed a track-walker, but the latter did not recognize the dark figure apparently hurrying toward home.
The road ran past back yards, from which an occasional dog saluted him, crossed a street at an angle, skirted a row of tumble-down brick buildings, and then emerged upon the river bank, which it skirted for perhaps half a mile. Upon this bank, in the days when municipal sanitation was not what it now is, a number of slaughter-houses had been built, because of the convenience of running their refuse into the river. This had been stopped some years before, and the buildings, already decrepit and decayed, had fallen into a still more disreputable condition.
A high board fence surrounded the little stretch of ground in front of them, and before this Bassett paused, groped an instant, pulled aside a loose board and slipped through. He let the board slide into place behind him, crossed the dirty yard, and, producing a key from his pocket, applied it to the lock of the first door he came to. An instant later, he had opened the door and entered.
An odour incredibly foul and overpowering greeted him, and he paused to catch his breath, as it were. Then, groping his way forward along the wall, he came to another door, which he opened. Carefully closing it behind him, he struck a match. Its glow revealed a black pit yawning before him, into which plunged a steep and narrow stair. On a ledge at the top was a candle-end, and lighting this and holding it before him, Bassett descended the stair, which creaked and groaned ominously under his weight. At the bottom he blew out his candle and placed it carefully on the lowest step.
He could hear the ripple of the river close at hand, but no other sound, for he was at the bottom of the shaft which led to the water’s edge. He apparently knew the place well, for he felt his way forward until his hands touched a board partition. Upon this he rapped sharply three times and then, after an interval, a fourth.
Instantly there was a sharp click and a little door swung open, disclosing a man holding a candle above his head and peering out into the darkness—a little, shrivelled man, with livid, pock-marked face and venomous eyes.
“All right, Hummel,” said Bassett, and stepped inside and drew the door shut after him.