Mr. Max H. Bookam, a little black-bearded man who
had started life tailoring in a garret, and was now
a multi-millionaire, raised his glass.
“No task shall seem too great,” he muttered.
“No risk shall make us afraid. Even the
exile shall take up his burden.”
Mr. Fischer’s business later on that night led
him into unsavoury parts. He left his car at
the corner of Fourteenth Street, and, after a moment’s
reflection, as though to refresh his memory, he made
his way slowly eastwards. He wore an unusually
shabby overcoat, and a felt hat drawn over his eyes,
both of which garments he had concealed in the automobile.
Even then, however, his appearance made him an object
of some comment. A little gang of toughs first
jostled him and then turned and followed in his footsteps.
A man came out of the shadows, and they broke away
with an oath.
“That cop’ll get his head broke some day,”
Fischer heard one of them mutter, with appropriate
adjectives.
There were others who looked curiously at him.
One man’s hand he felt running over his pockets
as he pushed past him. A couple of women came
screaming down the street and seized him by the arms.
He shook himself free, and listened without a word
to their torrent of abuse. The lights here seemed
to burn more dimly. Even the flares from the drinking
dens seemed secretive, and the shadowy places impenetrable.
It was before a saloon that at last he paused, listened
for a moment to the sound of a cracked piano inside,
and entered. The place was packed, and, fortunately
for him, a scrap of some interest between two villainous-looking
Italians in a distant corner was occupying the attention
of many of the patrons. A man with white, staring
face was banging at a crazy piano without a movement
of his body, his whole energies apparently directed
towards drowning the tumult of oaths and hideous execrations
which came from the two combatants. A drunken
Irishman, rolling about on the floor, kicked at him
savagely as he passed. An undersized little creature,
with the face of an old man but the figure of a boy,
marked him from a distant corner and crept stealthily
towards his side. Fischer reached the counter
at last and stood there for a moment, waiting.
Two huge, rough-looking negroes, in soiled linen clothes,
were dispensing the drinks. As one of them passed,
Fischer struck the counter with his forefinger, six
or seven times, observing a particular rhythm.
The negro started, turned his heavily-lidded, repulsive
eyes upon Fischer, and nodded slightly. He handed
out the drink he had in his hand, and leaned over the
counter.
“Want the boss?” he demanded.
Fischer assented. The negro lifted the flap of
the counter and opened a trapdoor, leading apparently
into a cellar beneath.
“Step right down,” he muttered. “Don’t
let the boys catch on. Get out of that, Tim,”
he added thickly to the dwarflike figure, whose slender
fingers were suddenly nearing Fischer’s neck.
