"Thought you were in jail," sneered the cashier as he took the paper.
"You are a liar," murmured James smoothly.
The official made no further comment. The glare from the old seaman's eyes did not justify it. He handed the money through the window with the air of one handing a bone to a starving dog. James stuffed it away in his clothes and pulling his hat over his eyes, went his way down the street to his favourite haunt when in town. No one appeared to notice him. He was not recognized.
"You can get me a bottle of rum," said he to the waiter.
"What kind, sare—three or six?"
"I'll drink somethin' about ten shillin's a bottle," said James. "Wake up!"
The waiter brought a bottle and drew the cork. The odour filled the air. It caused James to smack his lips and he drained four glasses in as many minutes. Then he sat back in his chair and seemed to study the negro's face.
"Do you know whether Mr. Jackson—firm of Wells & Jackson, underwriters—is in town?" he asked.
"Yo' mean de insurance company, sare—yes, sare, he's here. Seen to-day on de street," answered the waiter. "He took a drink with Mr. Booker befo' closing time."
"Thank you, you can wrap up that bottle—I'll go along now," said the sailor.