“I ought to tell you, to begin with,” he said, “that I am a poor boy, and made my living as best I could, by carrying baggage, selling papers, etc.”
“I don’t think any the worse of you for that. Did you live at the lodging houses?”
“No; until lately I lived with a man who keeps a saloon on the Bowery, and tended bar for him.”
“What was his name? As a reporter I know the Bowery pretty well.”
“Tim Bolton.”
“Tim Bolton? I know his place well. I think I must have seen you there. Your face looked familiar to me as soon as I set eyes on you.”
“Very likely. A good many people came into Tim’s. I couldn’t pretend to remember them all.”
“Was Tim a relative of yours?”
“I don’t believe he was. I always thought that he got hold of me when I was a kid. I don’t remember the time when I wasn’t with him.”
“I suppose you have always lived in New York?”