"When in doubt," he said, "ask everybody's friend. Come on; we'll go over and brace the barkeep." A young man, with a humorous slant to his eyebrows and dark hair combed back from the forehead in neatly ornate scallops, pulled down the front of a reasonably clean white jacket and spread both hands on the bar, awaiting their pleasure. "Mister Wine Clerk," said Verba, using the ceremonial title of his Tenderloin range, "we're trying to find an old boy named Bateman--Burton Bateman, retired actor by profession. Ever hear of him?" "Sure!" assented the barkeeper. "He's part of the fixtures--Old Bird is; but he ain't about now. To ketch him, you've come an hour late." "Lives round here somewhere, doesn't he?" "Search me," said the young man succinctly. "I guess he don't exactly live anywhere--not in a regular lodging house or anything like that. See? I never asked him--him being sort of touchy about his private affairs--but I guess he sleeps in some hole somewhere. He mostly does his scoffin' here though--as a guest of the house." "Does his what here?" asked Verba. "His scoffin'--his feedin'. See?" The young man flirted a thumb in the direction of the free-lunch counter. "Oh! He eats here?" "You said it! The boss--man that owns this liquor store--is a kind of an old-timer round here himself. I've heard him say he knowed The Bird away back yonder when the old theatre 'crost the street was runnin' and things was breakin' better for the old boy than what they do now. So he stakes him to a drink every now and then--Old Bird won't take a piece of change, but he will take a drink--and he lets him browse off the free lunch all he's a mind to. "He comes driftin' in here twicet a day regular and fills up on chow for nothin'! But he's been here already and left to-day--'bout an hour ago. I figure he won't be back now till 'long about four or five o'clock." Verba became cognisant of a tugging at his coat. An incredibly small, incredibly ragged boy, with some draggled first editions under his arm, had wormed silently in between his legs and was looking up at him with one eye. The boy had only one eye to look with. The other eye was a flattened slit over a sunken socket. "Mister! Say, Mister!" beseeched the gamin earnestly. "Gimme fi' cent and I'll----" "Hey, you, Blinky!" interposed the barkeeper, bending over the bar to see the small intruder. "Beat it!" There was a scurrying thud of bare feet on the tiled floor and the wizened intruder magically had vanished between the swinging doors. "You gents can sit down and wait if you want to," said the barkeeper. "It's liable to be a long time though. Or I can tell Old Bird, when he comes in, somebody's askin' for him and try to hold him for you. I could phone you even, if it's important--if you'll gimme your number." "It is important--in a way," said Verba. "Suppose we do that, Offutt--give the wine clerk our telephone number."