“Now, Pop,” spoke Joe, as he began dressing, “where can we find this Hogan?”
“Oh, most likely he’ll be down around Kelly’s place,” naming a sort of lodging-house hang-out for tramps and men of that class.
“Then down there we’ll go!” decided the young pitcher. “I’m going to have an interview with Hogan. If I’d only known he was the one responsible for the accusation against me I’d have held on to him while he was talking to you. But I didn’t realize it until afterward, and then the officer had put him outside. He was lost in the crowd. But suppose he isn’t at Kelly’s?”
“Oh, someone there can tell us where to find him. But it’s a rough place, Joe.”
“I suppose so. You don’t mind going there; do you?”
“Well, no, not exactly. True, a lot of the men I used to trail in with may be there, but, no matter. They can’t do any more than gibe me.”
“We could take a detective along,” suggested Joe.
“No, I think we can do better by ourselves. I don’t mind. You see after I—after I went down and out—I used to stop around at all the baseball towns, and in that way I got to know most of these lodging-house places. This one in Washburg is about as rough as any.”
“How did you come to know Hogan?”