“That’s my name on there,” said he; “Jake Beason, and I’m the best Chinatown guide that’s on the beat; I’ll show you everything from joss-house to hop-holes.”
“Do you know the Barbary Coast?”
“Do I know—Oh, come now! Why, say, I live over that way,” he snarled through the corner of his mouth; and he looked at me as though I had insulted his intelligence.
I decided that I would be plain and direct with that chap.
“I’m on the trail of a steamboat captain by the name of Holstrom, and he is two-thirds pickled, and has money on him. Do you think you know the places where a man like that would be likely to drop in?”
“What’s the lay—a touch and a divvy?”
“Nothing of the kind. I’m his friend, and I want to catch him and take him home out of trouble.”
“The same old stall,” he sneered. “You’ve got to let me be a friend, too.”
I reached out and got my crowbar clutch on that fellow. “I don’t suppose you ever had a man tell you the truth, son,” I said, “so I’m not going to blame you much. I say that I’m after this man to take him home to his daughter. That’s truth, and it’s on my say-so. If you propose to call me a liar, out with it, and we’ll settle the thing.”
“She stands as you say—and you needn’t pinch so,” he whined.