“Say, is de Wowzer up dere?” he inquired in a cautious whisper.
The man behind the bar, well known to Jimmie Dale as one of the Wowzer's particular pals, favoured him with a blank stare.
“Never heard of de guy!” he announced brusquely. “Wot's yours?”
“Gimme a mug of suds,” said Jimmie Dale, reaching for a match. He puffed at his cigar, blew out the match, and, after a moment, flung the charred end away—but on his hand, as, palm outward, he raised it to take his glass, the match had traced a small black cross.
The barkeeper put down the beer he had just drawn, wiped his hand hurriedly, and with sudden enthusiasm thrust it across the bar.
“Glad to know youse, cull!” he exclaimed. “Wot's de lay?”
Jimmie Dale smiled.
“Nix!” said Jimmie Dale. “I just blew in from Chicago. Used to know de Wowzer dere. He said dis place was on de level, an' I could always find him here, dat's all.”
“Sure, youse can!” returned the barkeeper heartily. “Only he ain't here now. He beat it about fifteen minutes ago, him an' Dago Jim. I guess youse'll find him at Chang's, I heard him an' Dago say dey was goin' dere. Know de place?”
Jimmie Dale shook his head.