"Modern work," he commented. "Band saws. No circulars there. Two hundred
thousand a day"; with which cryptic utterance he resumed his walk.

The opposite side of the river proved to be a smaller edition of the
other. Into the first saloon Tally pushed.

It resembled the others, except that no card game was in progress. The
barkeeper, his feet elevated, read a pink paper behind the bar. A figure
slept at the round table, its head in its arms. Tally walked over to
shake this man by the shoulder.

In a moment the sleeper raised his head. Bob saw a little, middle-aged
man, not over five feet six in height, slenderly built, yet with broad,
hanging shoulders. His head was an almost exact inverted pyramid, the
base formed by a mop of red-brown hair, and the apex represented by a
very pointed chin. Two level, oblong patches of hair made eyebrows. His
face was white and nervous. A strong, hooked nose separated a pair of
red-brown eyes, small and twinkling, like a chipmunk's. Just now they
were bloodshot and vague.

"Hullo, Dicky Darrell," said Tally.

The man struggled to his feet, knocking over the chair, and laid both
hands effusively on Tally's shoulders.

"Jim!" he cried thickly. "Good ole Jim! Glad to see you! Hav' drink!"

Tally nodded, and, to Bob's surprise, took his place at the bar.

"Hav' 'nother!" cried Darrell. "God! I'm glad to see you! Nobody in