“Where’s the man, Smiler?” asked Phil.
The boy grinned and nodded his head, as if to say:––“Come along,––I’ll show you.”
He led Phil through the back lanes to Chinatown, stopping in front of a cheap, Chinese restaurant. He pointed inside. Phil made to enter.
He encountered, of all people, Brenchfield coming out.
The suddenness of the Mayor’s appearance caused him 119 to catch his breath. In Phil’s mind it solved the problem at once.
Brenchfield stopped and stared at Phil, then he glared at Smiler who turned tail and ran off as if for his very life.
The Mayor appeared to be in one of his most sullen moods. He turned again and looked angrily at Phil, his eyes travelling from the young smith’s face to his boots, then back to his left hand in which he still held his recovered spurs.
Phil jingled them suggestively, and kept on into the restaurant. Brenchfield remained on the sidewalk in front of the door.
Phil knew quite well that he was taking chances, but he risked that.
There was nothing of any moment taking place in the main dining-room. Several diners were on stools at the counter. Others were at tables. A Chinese waiter was serving, while the cook was tossing hot cakes beside the cooking range. The door of the adjoining room was open. Some Chinamen were at a table, deeply interested in a game of chuckaluck. In a room still farther back, some white men were playing poker.