At ten o’clock that night, business was running lively at the low ceiled, dingy, riverside saloon, that was most popular with the factory men, the colliers, the drovers, and the promiscuous roughs of W——, and that bears the dignified title of “Old Forty Rods.”
The saloon is well patronized tonight. At the upper end, nearest the door, “Old Forty,” in person, is passing liquors across the bar, and bawling orders to a nimble assistant, while every now and then he addresses a coarse jest to some one of the numerous loafers about the bar, mingling them strangely with his orders, and his calling of the drinks, as he passes them across the rail.
“Here’s your beer, Lupin; Jack, half a dozen brandies for Mr. Burrill’s party; Little, you are out on the brown horse—rum and water? Yes, sir, yes.”
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