THAT NIGHT.
At ten o'clock that night, business was running lively at the low ceiled, dingy, riverside saloon, that was most popular with the factory men, the colliers, the drovers, and the promiscuous roughs of W——, and that bears the dignified title of "Old Forty Rods."
The saloon is well patronized to-night. At the upper end, nearest the door, "Old Forty," in person, is passing liquors across the bar, and bawling orders to a nimble assistant, while every now and then he addresses a coarse jest to some one of the numerous loafers about the bar, mingling them strangely with his orders, and his calling of the drinks, as he passes them across the rail.
"Here's your beer, Lupin; Jack, half a dozen brandies for Mr. Burrill's party; Little, you are out on the brown horse—rum and water? Yes, sir, yes."
"Burrill's beastly high to-night," said a factory hand, setting down his beer glass and wiping his mouth; "and the boys freeze to him since he handles old Lamotte's rocks."
"Of course, of course. Burrill don't forget old friends; Jack, bring the rum flask; they've been here a plum hour, them chaps, sir; 'ere's your punch, mister, and they keep the stuff runnin' down their throats, now I can tell you. Burrill foots the bill, of course; and they can do anything with that big chap when the wines get the upper hands of him. I'll be sworn, they're up to mischief to-night, for I see Rooney and Bob Giles, they delight in getting Burrill into scrapes, are drinking light, and plying him heavy," and "Forty" turned about to draw a glass of beer for a low-browed, roughly-dressed man who had just entered, and who was in fact, none other than the tramp who had feasted by the roadside, on the day before, and whom Mr. Belknap had called Roake.
Roake drank his beer, and lounged over the bar for a short time, then called for a second glass, and after drinking it, went quietly out.
At the lower end of the long saloon, several tables are scattered, and gathered about one of these we see the party spoken of as "Mr. Burrill's."
Five men are grouped about the small table, and among these, John Burrill is conspicuous for being much better dressed, much louder in his laughter, and viler in his jests, and much drunker than are the other four.
Since his change of fortunes, these men have made capital of his weakness, and his purse has supplied their thirst, in return for which he has been fawned upon, and flattered, during the earlier stages of his intoxication, and made a tool and a jest later.