“See the big blue blaze at the second story. That’s the hut. There is a Chink bean foundry on the first floor, and Schmelzer is on the next. On top of that you’ll find the hay-piles. Break in by the side door.”
“Thanks,” said Kenyon.
The place indicated was but a short distance away. Passing the entrance to a strong-smelling Chinese restaurant, Kenyon found a narrow, dirty-looking doorway. He passed up a flight of stairs, and at the first landing came upon Schmelzer’s in full blast. Men in pronounced clothes and with hats slanted at different angles played expert cues at the tables; about the ends of the room groups were formed discussing subjects of professional interest.
“Pickpockets, second-story operators and pikers,” commented Kenyon, as he went on up the next flight. “It looks like a cosey corner of Chicago when that good old town was a howling wilderness.”
On the next landing he found himself confronted by a small, dirty-faced girl, with tangled yellow hair.
“Who do you want?” demanded she.
“Mr. Brady,” answered Kenyon. “Does he live here?”
“What do you want with him?” inquired the child.
The adventurer looked down into the sharp little face, so smutted and old looking.
“He’s an old friend of mine, kidsy,” answered he. “Here’s a dime.”