“I’m looking for a pool-room kept by a man named Schmelzer,” said Kenyon. “Can you tell me where to find it?” The short youth looked him over carefully and then said: “I’ll spot you three, and take you on at a dollar a game.” Kenyon shook his head and smiled. “I’m not playing to-night,” said he. “I’m looking for a friend of mine who I’ve been told lives over Schmelzer’s.” The other looked disappointed; but he pointed down the street, and said: “See the big blue blaze at the second story. That’s the hut. There is a Chink bean foundry on the first floor, and Schmelzer is on the next. On top of that you’ll find the hay-piles. Break in by the side door.” “Thanks,” said Kenyon. The place indicated was but a short distance away. Passing the entrance to a strong-smelling Chinese restaurant, Kenyon found a narrow, dirty-looking doorway. He passed up a flight of stairs, and at the first landing came upon Schmelzer’s in full blast. Men in pronounced clothes and with hats slanted at different angles played expert cues at the tables; about the ends of the room groups were formed discussing subjects of professional interest. “Pickpockets, second-story operators and pikers,” commented Kenyon, as he went on up the next flight. “It looks like a cosey corner of Chicago when that good old town was a howling wilderness.” On the next landing he found himself confronted by a small, dirty-faced girl, with tangled yellow hair. “Who do you want?” demanded she. “Mr. Brady,” answered Kenyon. “Does he live here?” “What do you want with him?” inquired the child. The adventurer looked down into the sharp little face, so smutted and old looking. “He’s an old friend of mine, kidsy,” answered he. “Here’s a dime.” A grimy little hand shot out for the coin. Then she said: “He lives back there, in the last room. Knock hard on the door. Maybe he’s drunk.” Kenyon picked his way along the dirty hall, and rapped at the door at the end. “Who’s there?” growled a rough voice. “How are you, Brady?” responded Kenyon. “Can I come in?” XIII KENYON MEETS AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE “The deeds of one’s youth are long remembered.” --_The Strategy of Nunez._ THE voice growled something in an undertone that Kenyon could not understand. But he promptly took it as an invitation to enter, and so pushed open the door. A thick-shouldered man with a dark, bloated face was stretched upon a broken-springed sofa; and as Kenyon entered he lifted himself to a sitting position. “Who the hell are you?” he growled. Kenyon smiled. “There was a time, Gypsy, when you prided yourself upon your memory. It must have gone back on you of late years, if you don’t recognize old friends.” “Old friends!” The man glowered at the speaker. “I haven’t got any old friends. No man that is down and out has. When me coin run out, it was the side street and the far-away look for mine.”