As Brandon Tarr entered the apartment behind the bar room of the New England Hotel, the man at the table raised his head and surveyed him surlily. Evidently he had been drinking, and the liquor had changed his mood greatly from that of the affable sailor who had accosted the captain’s son in the Chopmist woods.
“Well, how came you here?” inquired the sailor, in no very friendly tone, gazing at Brandon, with bloodshot eyes.
“I came down on the train.”
“Ain’t you lost?”
“Guess not,” responded the boy.
The man shifted his position uneasily, keeping his eyes fixed upon his visitor.
“Can’t say as I expected to see you—just yet, any way.”
“No?” returned Brandon coolly.
“Say! wot the blazes do you want, any way?” demanded the sailor fiercely, after an instant’s silence. “It won’t pay you to be sassy here, my lad, now I can assure ye.”
“Think so? Seems to me you’re not as glad to see me as I reckoned you would be. It didn’t exactly pay you to come ’way up to Rhode Island to pump me, did it?”