"There are many Joneses in the world," he said, "but Rupert is an uncommon name. I didn't think there'd be more than one with that handle to his name. If he's alive I'll find him."
"Why don't you enquire of somebody that knew him?" asked Oliver.
"The thing is to find such a one," said Bundy. "There's been many changes in twenty years."
"Don't you know of some tradesman that he used to patronize, Mr. Bundy?"
"The very thing!" exclaimed the miner, for so I shall sometimes designate Mr. Bundy. "There's one man that may tell me about him."
"Who is that?"
"He kept a drinking-place down near Fulton Ferry. He may be living yet. I'll go and see him."
So one morning Nicholas Bundy, accompanied by Oliver, took the Third Avenue cars and went downtown. They got out near the Astor House, and made their way to the old place, which Bundy remembered well. To his great joy he found it—a little shabbier, a little dirtier, but in other respects the same.
They entered. Behind the bar stood a man of nearly sixty, whose bloated figure and dull red face indicated that he appreciated what he sold to others.
"What will you have, gentlemen?" he asked briskly.