“By Jove, I now am in a way to strike oil,” thought Nick, little dreaming just how he was to strike it. “Smoke is coming from the chimney. Some one in the house is up and doing. I’ll hunt him up, or her, as the case may be, and see what I can learn.”
Leaving the road, Nick glanced at the sign and read the name on it, then turned his steps toward the rear of the house, the door in front being closed, and the window curtains drawn down.
Before arriving at the rear corner, however, Nick brought up at the open door of a barroom of exceedingly primitive type, in which he found three men.
Two of them were rather roughly clad, dark-featured fellows of about thirty years of age, and both were seated at a round, bare table, each with a partly drank glass of ale before him.
The third was a brawny, red-featured man in his shirt sleeves. He was wiping the top of a dingy bar with a towel.
All looked a bit surprised when the detective’s imposing figure appeared at the open door. None evinced any deeper feeling, however, as Nick stepped in and approached the bar.
He ordered a glass of ale and remarked agreeably, with a glance at the two men at the table:
“Fine morning, gents. Drink yours down and have another.”
“Don’t mind if I do,” said one, replying.
“Good enough. What town is that up the river?” Nick asked.