“Trimble—Abner Trimble.”
“Was he in any business?”
“Yes; he kept a liquor saloon, and patronized his own bar too much for his own good.”
“I shouldn’t think your mother would like to have him in that business.”
“She asked him to change it, but he wouldn’t. He had a set of disreputable companions who made his saloon their headquarters, and he did not wish to give them up, as he might have had to do if he had gone into another business.”
By this time supper was over, and the two walked to Broadway. Edward felt stronger, and his eye was brighter.
Suddenly he gripped Chester’s arm.
“Do you see that man?” he asked, pointing to a black-bearded man on the other side of the street.
“Yes; what of him?”
“It is a gentleman from Portland, a neighbor of ours. What can he be doing in New York?”