from a portfolio an old print of the early nineteenth century,
representing part of the river front. Silently they compared this with
the scene around them, Larcher smiling at the difference. Davenport then
looked up at the house before which they stood. There was a saloon on
the ground floor, with a miniature ship and some shells among the bottles
in the window.

"If I could get permission to make a sketch from one of those windows up
there," said Davenport, glancing at the first story over the saloon.

"Suppose we go in and see what can be done," suggested Larcher.

They found the saloon a small, homely place, with only one attendant
behind the bar at that hour, two marine-looking old fellows playing some
sort of a game amidst a cloud of pipe-smoke at a table, and a third old
fellow, not marine-looking but resembling a prosperous farmer, seated
by himself in the enjoyment of an afternoon paper that was nearly all
head-lines.

Larcher ordered drinks, and asked the barkeeper if he knew who lived
overhead. The barkeeper, a round-headed young man of unflinching aspect,
gazed hard across the bar at the two young men for several seconds, and
finally vouchsafed the single word:

"Roomers."

"I should like to see the person that has the front room up one flight,"
began Larcher.

"All right; that won't cost you nothing. There he sets." And the