“I know that bird,” I said.
“He’s no good,” said McDevitt.
“He’s worse than that,” I said, “and I have a little matter to settle with him.”
“Meaning how?”
“The only way I can hit any of the short sports is through their pocketbook. I can’t touch him in St. Louis just now, but some day I will.” And I told McDevitt my grievance.
“Well,” says old Mac, “he tried to connect here in New York and couldn’t make it, so he’s opened a place in Hoboken. The word’s gone out that there is no limit to the play and that the house roll has got the Rock of Gibraltar faded to the shadow of a bantam flea.”
“What sort of a place?” I thought he meant pool room.
“Bucket shop,” said McDevitt.
“Are you sure it’s open?”
“Yes; I’ve seen several fellows who’ve told me about it.”