Situated on the second floor of a building on the Bowery, not far from the corner of Canal street, its nightly patrons were those of a decidedly low-toned sort.
Small clerks in wholesale stores, small sporting men, not yet arrived at the dignity of the more fashionable clubs, and small—oh, very small—card-flippers and poker playing cheats, who considered the ability to store aces and kings, ad libitum, in the sleeves of their small-tailed coats, the very highest touch of art, and who used their skill, as may be readily believed, to fleece such of the small clerks who were bold enough to challenge them to a friendly game.
For card-playing—and that means plain poker and nothing else—was all they did at Dyball's Club-room, except to consume the vile liquor and smoke Regalia de Avenue B cigars served over the bar; but, although limited in variety, the entertainment furnished made up in quantity what it otherwise lacked; nor did the votaries at the Dyball shrine often separate until morning had well-nigh dawned.
Upon the evening referred to in the last chapter, at a few minutes after eleven o'clock, just as the sidewalks along the brilliantly-lighted Bowery were beginning to whiten with what promised to be a heavy fall of snow, there entered Dyball's club room no less celebrated a person than Mr. Detective Cutts, a young but already popular special on the force of the New York police.
He was in citizen's dress, of course—in fact, the same in which we have already met him on this night once before—and as he pushed his way among the card tables, a long cigar stuck in one corner of his mouth, his cane under his left arm, and his Derby hat set rakishly upon the side of his head, several of the small clerks rejoicing in a speaking acquaintance with so prominent an official, greeted him with an air of great respect, their less fortunate companions regarding them with feelings of envy not unmingled with awe.
But the young detective paid little attention to any of the players at the card tables.
Pushing his way among them through the stifling atmosphere, fairly blue with tobacco smoke, and reeking with the stale odors of whisky and beer, he approached a small table in a remote corner of the room, where sat four young men who, if the chips upon its green baize top and the anxious faces of the players themselves could be taken as a guide, were indulging in a pretty stiff sort of game.
"Frank, I want to see you," he said, quietly, placing his hand lightly upon the shoulder of the youngest man of the four.
"All right, Billy, I'll be with you when I finish this hand."
"I'll wait for you in the wine-room."