Opening the door that leads from the
Street into the apartment that once served as a bar-room, he (the
writer) asked if Mr. Allen was at home, and he was informed by a lad to
whom the inquiry was addressed, that he was not--he was across the
street talking to Slocum, (the proprietor of a neighboring dance-hall,)
and if the business upon which the visitor had called was important he
would be summoned. Allen was accordingly sent for, and with evident
reluctance he accompanied the lad to the room of which we have spoken.
The moment he entered, it was easily seen that he was grossly
intoxicated. His step was steady, but the wandering expression of his
bloodshot eyes, the silly grin that played about his lips, and the
unmistakable rum-odor of his breath, as he approached, made it certain
that he was a drunken man. He did not wait for the formalities of an
introduction, but at once opened with: 'Well, who are you? What's your
name? Where do you live? What's your business--salvation, sinners,
eh?'--all at a single breath, and with a rapidity that would defy the
pencil of the most skilful stenographer. There was an air of
imperiousness, too, in his tone of voice, that seemed to say, 'Come,
talk quickly now, and then go about your business; I have no time to
waste.' The inquiries, in the main, having been answered, Allen closed
the door of the saloon, dragged a small table and two chairs into the
middle of the floor, and, having done this, and dismissed the boy and a
hideous-looking girl, who was preparing to scrub the apartment, he bade
us be seated, and then resumed the conversation, which was carried on
in something like the following manner:
'Well, Mr.
Pages:
338
339
340
341
342
343
344
345
346
347
348
349
350
351
352
353
354
355
356
357
358
359
360
361
362