“What did you buy it for if you didn’t intend to drink it?” asked Willie, in astonishment.
“When you’re in Rome,” said Sheridan, “you must do as the Romans do. These fellows have come here for booze and nothing else. A fellow that came in here and didn’t order a drink would attract attention right away. You and I are not looking for attention. Now we’ll get out, and we’ll try to slip out without attracting any more attention than we can help. These longshoremen are mighty suspicious.”
He paid his reckoning and the two started for the door. Willie was all eyes. He tried to see everything and yet not seem to be looking. Right away his eye was attracted by that flaming red necktie of Anderson’s, and he noticed that its owner had moved away from the door and joined a knot of men, who had their heads close together over a table. One of them had evidently been drinking too freely, for his voice was plainly raised above the general hum of conversation.
“I’ve got a fine jag of cotton to sell,” Willie heard him say.
“Shut up. Not so loud. Keep quiet,” came the protesting voices of his fellows.
Sheridan was already out of the door and did not hear the remark. Willie caught it plainly, but did not understand its significance. He shut the door and followed Sheridan down the steps.
“What did that fellow mean about having a jag of cotton to sell?” he asked Sheridan.
“Who said he had cotton to sell?” asked Sheridan instantly.
“Why, a fellow at that table with Red Anderson.”
“I didn’t hear anybody say anything about cotton.”