“I am going back to-morrow.”
“On business?”
Charley nodded—he glanced involuntarily at the sign across the street.
Jean Jolicoeur saw the look. “Lawyer’s business, p’r’aps?”
“A lawyer’s business—yes.”
“Ah, if Charley Steele was here!”
“I have as good a lawyer as—”
The landlord laughed scornfully. “They’re not made. He’d legislate the devil out of the Pit. Where are you going to stay, M’sieu’?”
“Somewhere cheap—along the river,” answered the Forgotten Man.
Jolicoeur’s good-natured face became serious. “I’ll tell you a place—it’s honest. It’s the next street, a few hundred yards down, on the left. There’s a wooden fish over the door. It’s called The Black Bass—that hotel. Say I sent you. Good luck to you, countryman! Ah, la; la, there’s the second bell—I must be getting to Mass!” With a nod he turned and went into the house.