Sheridan ordered some hot oyster soup and when the waiter brought a steaming tureen and lifted the cover, the smell that rose was so savory that Willie was glad enough to “help” Sheridan with his supper. When they had finished the soup, and some other good things besides, Sheridan lighted a cigar and lounged back in his chair. A waiter promptly came. “Did you want some coffee?” he asked with one eye closed. Willie did not comprehend what the waiter really meant, even though he noticed the wink. But when Sheridan nodded, and the waiter brought a coffee-cup containing whiskey, Willie understood quickly enough. “Where did it come from?” said Sheridan indifferently. “Is it all right?” “From Bermuda, I guess, and it’s the real stuff.” And the waiter withdrew. “We’re going to have a good deal of trouble before we are done with that stuff,” said Sheridan. “The fellows that are bringing it into the country are a dangerous gang. They stick at nothing.” He did not drink the stuff, however, but surreptitiously emptied his cup in a spittoon. “A fellow would be taking a long chance to drink any of this South Street booze,” he said. “More than likely it’s wood alcohol.” “What did you buy it for if you didn’t intend to drink it?” asked Willie, in astonishment. “When you’re in Rome,” said Sheridan, “you must do as the Romans do. These fellows have come here for booze and nothing else. A fellow that came in here and didn’t order a drink would attract attention right away. You and I are not looking for attention. Now we’ll get out, and we’ll try to slip out without attracting any more attention than we can help. These longshoremen are mighty suspicious.” He paid his reckoning and the two started for the door. Willie was all eyes. He tried to see everything and yet not seem to be looking. Right away his eye was attracted by that flaming red necktie of Anderson’s, and he noticed that its owner had moved away from the door and joined a knot of men, who had their heads close together over a table. One of them had evidently been drinking too freely, for his voice was plainly raised above the general hum of conversation. “I’ve got a fine jag of cotton to sell,” Willie heard him say. “Shut up. Not so loud. Keep quiet,” came the protesting voices of his fellows. Sheridan was already out of the door and did not hear the remark. Willie caught it plainly, but did not understand its significance. He shut the door and followed Sheridan down the steps. “What did that fellow mean about having a jag of cotton to sell?” he asked Sheridan. “Who said he had cotton to sell?” asked Sheridan instantly. “Why, a fellow at that table with Red Anderson.” “I didn’t hear anybody say anything about cotton.” “You were already out of the door. But I heard him distinctly. The others told him to keep quiet.” “They had more reason to than they knew,” said Sheridan. “I suppose the guy has been stealing cotton and is ready for a little cotton auction.”