“Maybe you’d better obey orders!” snapped Clem, his square-hewn face set in hard, determined lines. “Here! Take my coat with you!”
Peeling to his flannel shirt, he tossed his coat to Ed and turned away. The other looked after him with a sour grin.
“Want all the fun yourself, eh? All right, cap’n. You ain’t goin’ to shake me!”
Ed Davis followed his partner—at a very respectful distance.
Clem strode along in the gathering dusk. Crossing Beacon Street, he headed for a large pool room, where he was pretty certain to find his quarry.
“So he didn’t come home for supper—hasn’t come home all day!” he muttered savagely. “Huh! Claims to be walking in my shoes, does he? Huh!”
Clem turned in at the pool-room entrance, where a noisy phonograph was grinding out ragtime. About the rear of the place he saw a dozen young fellows grouped about a pool table, with a cloud of tobacco smoke hanging over them. With a curt nod to the proprietor, Clem strode back past the tables.
He soon picked out Tom Saunders, a big-boned, rather handsome fellow, three inches taller than Clem, and built along the same lines as the old skipper. But Tom’s strong, even powerful, face was marred by the undeniable touch of liquor, and a cigarette trailed smoke between his fingers. His companions laughed uproariously at his jokes, and gave him an acclamation, which he seemed to enjoy hugely.
“Clem Frobisher, by golly!”
As the cry went up from the assembled fellows, all of whom knew Clem, Tom Saunders turned and came forward, cue in hand, with a quick smile of delight. He stretched out a big hand toward Clem.