Phil strolled in there. No one paid any heed to him.
His eyes travelled over the players. He did not know any of them. But it did not take him a second to settle in his mind which was the man he was after.
A little, stout, narrow-eyed fellow, who did not seem to have been shaved or washed for months, was seated at the far corner, chewing tobacco viciously. Evidently he had just resumed his game, for Phil heard one of the players exclaim:––
“Aw!––get a move on, Ginger! What’n the deuce do you want to keep us here all day for, waitin’ for you and that blasted Mayor to quit chewin’ the fat?”
None worried about the new arrival: they were all too engrossed in their game.
In the middle of it, Phil went up close.
“Men,––I hate to butt in, but I want that dirty little fellow over there.” He pointed suggestively at his man.
“Yes,––you Ginger!” he shouted, as the little man gaped.
“Aw,––get back on your base!” was all he got for answer, for the man had no idea who had challenged him, and drunks had a habit of interfering at cards, ultimately to find themselves thrown out into the street. He took Phil for one of those and left it to the man nearest to the intruder to settle the account.