Chapter XIII.
Tim Bolton’s Saloon.
Not far from Houston Street, on the west side of the Bowery, is an underground saloon, with whose proprietor we are already acquainted.
It was kept by Tim Bolton, whose peculiar tastes and shady characteristics well fitted him for such a business.
It was early evening, and the gas jets lighted up a characteristic scene.
On the sanded floor were set several tables, around which were seated a motley company, all of them with glasses of beer or whiskey before them.
Tim, with a white apron on, was moving about behind the bar, ministering to the wants of his patrons. There was a scowl upon his face, for he was not fond of work, and he missed Dodger’s assistance.
The boy understood the business of mixing drinks as well as he, and often officiated for hours at a time, thus giving his guardian and reputed father a chance to leave the place and meet outside engagements.
A tall, erect gentleman entered the saloon, and walked up to the bar.
“Good-evening, colonel,” said Tim.
“Good-evening, sir,” said the newcomer, with a stately inclination of the head.