CHAPTER XXIII. THE VENTRILOQUIST
The boys went into the public room of the tavern. In the center was a stove, around which were gathered a miscellaneous crowd, who had assembled, as usual, to hear and talk over the news of the day. At the farther end of the room was a bar, where liquor and cigars were sold. The walls of the room, which was rather low-studded, were ornamented by sundry notices and posters of different colors, with here and there an engraving of no great artistic excellence—one representing a horse race, another a steamer of the Cunard Line, and still another, the Presidents of the United States grouped together, with Washington as the central figure.
"Have a cigar, Walton?" asked Frank Heath.
"No, thank you, Frank."
"You haven't got so far along, hey?"
"I don't think it would do me any good," said Harry.
"Maybe not; but jolly comfortable on a cold night. The worst of it is, it's mighty expensive."
Frank walked up to the bar and bought a ten-cent cigar. He returned and sat down on a settee.
"The magician isn't here," said Harry.
"Hush, he is here!" said Frank, in a low voice, as the door opened, and a tall, portly man entered the room.