“Born and raised in the Sixth Ward,” answered the man, proudly.
“Good! Maybe you can tell me what I want to know. There used to be a place somewhere on the Bowery near here kept by a man named Brady—Gypsy Brady.”
“Oh, the cops put Brady out of business long ago. You see, New York grew out of those places where they had bad whiskey and bad music. Either one of them must be good now,” with a grin. “But if you want the Gypsy, he’s easy found. Lives over Schmelzer’s place in Pell Street. It’s a pool-room. Anybody will tell you where it is.”
A little later found Kenyon making his way among the human drift that thickens such slack water as Pell Street. The stench of the low Chinese dens was almost unbearable; now and then he met the large-pupiled gaze of a gray-faced wretch begging money with which to purchase his dearly loved drug. But Kenyon paid little attention to anything save his hunt for Schmelzer’s place. At the corner of a foul-looking alley he encountered a short, large-bodied youth in a striped sweater and a cap.
“I’m looking for a pool-room kept by a man named Schmelzer,” said Kenyon. “Can you tell me where to find it?”
The short youth looked him over carefully and then said:
“I’ll spot you three, and take you on at a dollar a game.”
Kenyon shook his head and smiled.
“I’m not playing to-night,” said he. “I’m looking for a friend of mine who I’ve been told lives over Schmelzer’s.”
The other looked disappointed; but he pointed down the street, and said: