CHAPTER 8Don returned to his drink, brooding at the framed photographs above the bar mirror; ice-sheathed trawlers berthed at the South Street wharves, Bluenose schooners under full sail, a slant-masted buckeye dredging across an oyster bank.
He would be pretty conspicuous in his custom-tailored Cheviot; he would be pretty dumb, too, if he didn’t realize that bucko in the basque shirt was suspicious of him. Still, as far as Don knew, the fellow had never set eyes on him before; he might suppose Don was a plainclothesman on the Pickpocket and Confidence Squad.
The fellow wasn’t mingling with the fishermen and market-men, nor did he have anything to say to the bartender, merely rapping on the walnut with his beer glass when he wanted a refill. So presumably he was almost as much of a stran
