They were thus engaged about half past four, in the stuss house then run by Karl Ritchie, known to be a favorite haunt of ex-convicts and denizens of the underworld.
“There’s one of them, now,” Chick whispered to Patsy, when entering the place. “He has done time twice for holdup jobs.”
“You mean Slugger Sloan?” questioned Patsy, glancing toward the table at which the gambler was seated.
“Yes, of course,” Chick muttered. “There’s a vacant chair next to him.”
“I see.”
“I’ll take it, Patsy, while you play at one of the other tables. We’ll look the place over very thoroughly, and then get out.”
“I’m on,” nodded Patsy, sauntering to another part of the room.
Very little attention was paid to either of them by the other players, and the man mentioned by Chick hardly noticed him when he took the next chair and began his play.[Pg 31]
He was a stocky, muscular chap in the twenties, with a countenance evincing depravity and vice, also a taciturn and surly nature. The latter had plunged him into numerous fights, which had earned for him the nickname he was bearing, that of Slugger Sloan.
Chick had been playing less than ten minutes, however, and was apprehending no profitable results, when something occurred that quickly reversed his opinion.