Now the streets of Greenwich Village twist and turn, as somebody has said, “like a giant pretzel.” Tenth Street crosses Eleventh Street, and Eighth Street runs through both of them in this topsy-turvy old quarter.
Jack’s course lay for the elevated station at Eighth Street, but, what with the fog and his unfamiliarity with the section, he found himself utterly lost after a short time, wandering about with no idea where he was.
But to his nostrils came a whiff of the sea, and he suddenly bethought himself of the fact that, although there were no late passers-by or policemen to be seen in “the village,” he might be able to find somebody on the waterfront who would direct him.
“I’m a fine sailor to lose my bearings like this,” he scolded himself as he bent his steps in that direction.
If the village had been deserted, there was plenty of life—and life of a very doubtful sort—on the waterfront. Saloons blazed with light, and from within came discordant sounds of disorderly choruses and songs. These places were the haunt of ’longshoremen, stevedores and the lower class of sailors from the big liners, whose docks ranged northward in a majestic line.
Jack had no desire to go into one of these resorts, but he looked about in vain for some more respectable place in which to inquire. As is not uncommon in New York, not a policeman was in sight, and the few passers-by were too ruffianly-looking to make the boy feel inclined to accost them.
At last he found himself opposite a small eating place—the Welcome Home—that appeared to be fairly respectable. A full-rigged ship painted in red and blue on its front window and the legends displayed in the same place told him it was an eating house for sailors.
And so he decided to go in. In the front of the place was a glass showcase filled with cheap cigars. Behind it were gaudily colored posters of steamship lines.
There was no one behind the counter, and Jack started toward the rear, where three men sat at a table talking rather boisterously.
One of them, a big, hulking fellow with the build of a bull, brought his fist down on the table with a crash that made the plates and glasses jump, just as Jack came in.