“That’s the man. Can he be seen?”
“I will findt me oud.”
A colored boy was summoned.
“Mistah Kenyon is in de pool-room, sah,” he informed the clerk.
“All ride. Jusdt show dese chentlemens pack dere, yet.”
They found the person they sought perched upon a window-sill, intently watching a game of billiards. He was a compactly-built youth of about twenty-two or three, neatly dressed, and with the flattened nose and swollen ear of the prize-fighter. He slipped down from his perch, and at their invitation went with them to a quiet corner of the room. When he found that they were looking for information upon the subject of the attack made upon him, he at once manifested great interest.
“Police business?” inquired he.
“No; we have private reasons for seeking information in this matter,” answered Kenyon. “Anything you can tell us will be appreciated in the proper way.”
The little pugilist’s eyes snapped.
“Now, that’s good talk!” exclaimed he. “You see, pal, I’m a stranger in a strange land, and my roll ain’t any too thick. New York is no place, just now, for a man in my line; and even if it was, I couldn’t take anyone on, the way I’m fixed here,” and he tapped his bandaged head significantly.