The old man, who had forgotten all about bunco men and their ilk in his anxiety to recover his nephew, followed him into the bar room. The place was but poorly patronized at this hour of the day, and with a nod to Brady, who, his face adorned with a most beautiful black eye, was behind the bar, Weeks led the way to an empty table in the further corner.
“What’ll you an’ your friend hev ter drink?” inquired Mr. Brady, with an atrocious grin.
“Oh, a bottle of sarsaparilla,” responded Weeks carelessly, and when the bull necked barkeeper had brought it, the ex-clerk paid for the refreshment himself.
Old Arad had looked rather scared at the appearance of the bottle. His mind at once reverted to the stories he had read in the local paper at home (which paper he had borrowed from a neighbor, by the way) of countrymen being decoyed into dens in New York and treated to drugged liquor.
But as Weeks allowed the bottle to stand on the table between them untouched throughout their conference, the old man felt easier in his mind.
“Ye say ye’ve seen Brandon?” inquired Arad, when Jack Brady had returned to his position behind the bar, and there was nobody within earshot.
“Yes. I’ll tell you how it was. You see, Mr. Tarr—that’s your name, isn’t it?—I have a position in a shipping merchant’s office as clerk. The office is—er—closed today, so I am out. This office is that of Adoniram Pepper & Co. Ever hear of them?”
Old Arad shook his head negatively.
“Pepper was a great friend of this Brandon’s father, so I understand.”
“Mebbe,” snarled the farmer. “Cap’n Tarr’s friends warn’t my friends.”