“Why, you ought to know,” said Dicky with evident surprise. “But you'd better be hurrying down to Borton's. The gang must be there by now.”
I could only wonder who Borton might be, and where his place was, and what connection he might have with the mystery, as Dicky took me by the arm and hurried me out into the darkness. The chill night air served to nerve instead of depress my spirits, as the garrulous Dicky unconsciously guided me to the meeting-place, joyously narrating some amusing adventure of the day, while the heavy retainer stalked in silence behind.
Down near the foot of Jackson Street, where the smell of bilge-water and the wash of the sewers grew stronger, and the masts of vessels could just be seen in the darkness outlined against the sky, Dicky suddenly stopped and drew me into a doorway. Our retainer disappeared at the same instant, and the street was apparently deserted. Then out of the night the shape of a man approached with silent steps.
“Five-sixteen,” croaked Dicky.
The man gave a visible start.
“Sixteen-five,” he croaked in return.
“Any signs?” whispered Dicky.
“Six men went up stairs across the street. Every one of them did the sailor-drunk act.”
“Sure they weren't sailors?”
“Well, when six coves goes up the same stairs trying the same dodge, all inside of ten minutes, I has a right to my suspicions. And Darby Meeker ain't been to sea yet that I knows on.”