“Ain’t that business, old man?”
“Well, yes.”
“You are sure Bull Blair is the man you want?” asked Frank.
“Why do you ask?”
“Bull claims to have become converted from his wicked ways.”
Burt laughed.
“If the gentleman was ever converted,” he said, “he has again fallen from grace. His pal, Tony Riley, says Blair was into the job.”
“Well, I’ll have a go at him.”
At ten o’clock that night, Frank Hare, attired as a “tough,” entered a basement saloon on Cherry Street. There was a platform at the rear upon which was seated a long-haired young man, who banged away at a decrepit piano. At the tables, scattered around the room, were many men and women.
As Frank’s luck would have it, Blair was there, and alone. Bull was a great brute, standing all of six feet high, and being built in proportion. There was no beard on his face, and he had one eye missing. In front of the rascal stood a bottle of liquor, a small pitcher of water, and a glass.