“Where has all your money gone?” asked Joe.
“Lost it at faro. Lend me a dollar and I’ll win it all back.”
“I have no money to spare,” said Joe decidedly.
“Curse you for a young skinflint!” said Hogan, scowling. “I’ll get even with you yet.”
CHAPTER XV
THE FOILED ASSASSIN
About four o’clock Joe went into a restaurant and got some dinner. In spite of his wish to be economical, his dinner bill amounted to a dollar and a half, and now his cash in hand was reduced to two dollars and a half.
Joe began to feel uneasy.
“This won’t do,” he said to himself. “At this rate I shall soon be penniless. I must get something to do.”
In the evening he strolled down Montgomery Street to Telegraph Hill. It was not a very choice locality, the only buildings being shabby little dens, frequented by a class of social outlaws who kept concealed during the day but came out at night—a class to which the outrages frequent at this time were rightly attributed.
Joe was stumbling along the uneven path, when all at once he found himself confronted by a tall fellow wearing a slouched hat. The man paused in front of him, but did not say a word. Finding that he was not disposed to move aside, Joe stepped aside himself. He did not as yet suspect the fellow’s purpose. He understood it, however, when a heavy hand was laid on his shoulder.