"Next!" Then, with a meaning glance, he indicated a door at the rear of the shop. In the third chair Jim recognized Max Melcher, although the face of the sporting-man was swathed in steaming cloths.
Jim passed on and into a rear room, where he found three men seated at a felt-covered card-table. They were well dressed, quiet persons—one a bookmaker whom the racing laws had reduced from affluence to comparative penury; another, a tall, pallid youth with bulging eyes. The third occupant of the room was an ex-lightweight champion of the ring, Young Sullivan, by name. His trim waist and powerful shoulders betokened his trade. His jaw was firm, and a cauliflower ear overhung his collar like a fungus.
Jim drew up a chair and chatted idly until the book-maker yawned, rose, and went out. Then Jim and the others relaxed.
"Gee, he's a sticker!" exclaimed the pugilist. "I thought he'd broke his back."
"Max is getting his map greased," the pop-eyed youth explained. Taking a pasteboard box from his pocket, he removed a heroin tablet therefrom and crushed it; the powder he held in the indentation between the base of his closed thumb and first finger, known as "the thimble"; then, with a quick inhalation, he drew the drug up his nostrils. "Have an angel?" he inquired, offering the box.
Jim accepted, but Young Sullivan declined.
"What's the news?" the latter inquired.
"I've seen Goldy," replied Jim. "Mother and I will call on Merkle at three. I finally got her to consent."
Sullivan shook his head. "He MIGHT fall, but I doubt it. How does your sister feel?"
"That's the trouble. She's square, and we can't use her," Jim explained.