Brandon hesitated a moment before entering the place. It was plainly a saloon of the worst type, the “hotel” part evidently being but a “blind” by means of which the bar could be kept open all night.
Two or three disreputable men—sailors or longshoremen by appearance—were hanging about the door, but Brandon Tarr had a good deal of confidence in his ability to take care of himself, and finally ascended the steps.
A sickening odor of stale tobacco smoke and bad liquor assailed his nostrils as he stepped within the room, and he was almost tempted to back out and give up his intention of seeing Wetherbee. But the man behind the bar—a villainous looking fellow with a closely cropped head and red face—had seen him and came briskly forward.
“Well, young felley, what kin I do fur ye?” he asked, in what was intended as a pleasant tone.
Deciding that he was in for it, the captain’s son walked forward to the bar and replied:
“Nothing to drink, thank you. I’m looking for a man who’s stopping here—Caleb Wetherbee.”
The bartender eyed him curiously and repeated:
“Caleb Wetherbee, eh? Well, I’ll see ’f he’s here.”
He stepped back to a door leading into an inner room and, opening it a crack, called to somebody inside. There was a whispered conversation between the men, and the bull necked individual came back to the bar.
“All right, m’ duck; he’s in dere,” he said, with a grin, and a motion of his thumb toward the inner door. “Yer don’t have ter send in no kyard.”