"Just as you say. Barkeeper, give me some whisky straight, and give the kid sarsaparilla if he wants it."
The orders were filled. Jack tossed down a glass of fiery whisky, which made his face even redder than before, and then drawing from his pocket a roll of bills, settled for both drinks.
Mark was surprised at the abundance of money his companion seemed to have. When they met in New York Jack was very hard up, and had only succeeded in obtaining twenty five-cents from his parsimonious aunt.
After drinking the whisky Jack sank into a chair, finding a sitting position more comfortable under the circumstances.
"Have you seen your aunt lately, Mr. Minton?" Mark asked.
"Who's my aunt?" hiccoughed Jack, "I ain't got no aunt."
"I mean Mrs. Mack, the old lady who lives in St. Mark's place."
"I don't know anything about—'bout Mrs. Mack," answered Minton with a cunning look. "What sh'd I know of Miss—Mrs. Mack?"
"She's your aunt, isn't she?"
"She used to be, but she's a bad old woman. I don't want to see her again."