The place that he entered was one that would have made a man's heart stand still, much less that of a person built upon his small scale, and for a single moment he hesitated, but the hesitation was scarcely long enough to be called one.
It was a low saloon, and one in the "ring" could easily have recognized more than one member of the Whyo gang in that motley assemblage.
Blurred eyes were lifted questioningly, and the boy was "taken in" from head to foot.
Disregarding all this, and affecting a boldness he was far from feeling, he advanced to the man behind the bar and said, in a low tone:
"Say, pard, I've been told that you kin tell a feller where to find Ben Mauprat. Ef yer kin, yer'll do a good day's work fur Ben!"
"Say, Ike!" the barkeeper called to a man across the room, "this here kid wants to know where Ben Mauprat lives. Kin you tell him?"
"Cert! he lives on Great Jones Street—Number ——. He is sweller than we are. Shouldn't wonder but what he'd be one of the four hundred before the month's up."
The boy did not wait to hear the conclusion of the speech, but, muttering some words of thanks that "Ike" did not condescend to notice, he left the saloon.
He walked rapidly in the direction of Great Jones Street.
The number that had been indicated was not a desirable-looking residence, but no doubt to the other men of his class, Ben Mauprat's home was eminently respectable, if not elegant.