About noon Herbert reached the city. He had formed no particular plan, except to find Cornelius Dixon, who would doubtless be able to advise him about getting a place, perhaps would have influence enough to procure him one. He did not know where to look for Cornelius, but concluded that his name would be in the city directory. He entered a small liquor store, which he happened to pass, and walked up to the counter.
“Good-morning,” said he politely, addressing a young man behind the bar.
This young man had coarse red hair, and a mottled complexion, and looked as if he patronized freely the liquors he sold. He turned his glance upon Herbert, who stood before him with his fresh, inquiring face, holding under his arm a small bundle of clothing tied up in a paper.
“Hello, yourself!” he answered. “Want some bitters?”
“Thank you,” said Herbert, innocently, “I don't require any medicine.”
“Medicine?” repeated the other, with a frown. “Do you mean to compare my drinks to medicine?”
“You said bitters,” returned Herbert.
“You're from the country, ain't you?” asked the bartender.
“Yes, sir.”
“So I thought. You haven't cut your eyeteeth yet. When a gentleman takes a drink he takes his bitters. Now, what'll you have?”