"Where is your friend?" said Ajax.
The man behind the bar protested ignorance. Then my brother laid a five-dollar gold piece upon the country, and repeated the question. The man's yellow fingers began to tremble. Gold to him was opium, and opium held all his world and the glory thereof.
"I can't take you to him--now," he muttered sullenly.
"You can," replied Ajax, "and you must."
The man glared at us. Doubtless he guessed the nature of our errand, and wished to protect his friend from the interference of Philistines, Then he smiled evilly, and laughed.
"All right; come on. I ain't goin' to take yer to the Palace Hotel."
He opened the till and slipped some money into his pocket. Then he put on a ragged overcoat, and a hat which he drew down over his eyes with a furtive jerk of his yellow fingers. Then he went behind the bar and swallowed something; it was not whisky, but it brought a faint tinge of colour into his cheek, and seemed to stiffen his knees.
"Shall we walk, boys, or shall I send for my carriage?"
"Your carriage," repeated Ajax. "Are you speaking of the patrol- waggon? It is just round the corner."
This allusion to the police was not wasted upon The Babe's friend, who scowled and retorted glibly--