“You’ve got an eye like a hawk’s,” he commented. “I meant the fellow with the red necktie. Get a good look at him when you go out. He’s one of the toughest nuts on the water-front. And he’s about the only man that wears a necktie, too. That’s a bug of his—red neckties. Whenever there’s any crooked work along the water-front, you can be sure he’s got a hand in it.”
“What’s his name?” asked Willie.
“They call him ‘Red’ Anderson. I don’t know what his real name is.”
Sheridan ordered some hot oyster soup and when the waiter brought a steaming tureen and lifted the cover, the smell that rose was so savory that Willie was glad enough to “help” Sheridan with his supper. When they had finished the soup, and some other good things besides, Sheridan lighted a cigar and lounged back in his chair.
A waiter promptly came. “Did you want some coffee?” he asked with one eye closed.
Willie did not comprehend what the waiter really meant, even though he noticed the wink. But when Sheridan nodded, and the waiter brought a coffee-cup containing whiskey, Willie understood quickly enough.
“Where did it come from?” said Sheridan indifferently. “Is it all right?”
“From Bermuda, I guess, and it’s the real stuff.” And the waiter withdrew.
“We’re going to have a good deal of trouble before we are done with that stuff,” said Sheridan. “The fellows that are bringing it into the country are a dangerous gang. They stick at nothing.”
He did not drink the stuff, however, but surreptitiously emptied his cup in a spittoon. “A fellow would be taking a long chance to drink any of this South Street booze,” he said. “More than likely it’s wood alcohol.”