He found the room
crowded with the wiseacres of the place, the Bohemian, drinking element
perhaps predominating. The room was so full of smoke that, as Sam
entered, he could hardly distinguish its contents, but he saw a
confused mass of men in wooden arm-chairs tipped at every conceivable
angle, surrounding a tall round stove which was heated white hot. The
room was intensely warm and apparently totally wanting in ventilation.
"Here's my friend, Captain Jinks," said a husky voice which Sam
recognized as that of old Reddy. "Here, take this chair near the fire."
Sam accepted the offered chair, altho he would have preferred a
situation a little less torrid.
"Gentlemen, this is Captain Jinks," said the old man, determined to get
all the credit he could from his acquaintance with Sam. "Captain, this
is my friend, Mr. Jackson."
Mr. Jackson was a tall, thin, narrow-chested man with no shoulders, a
rounded back, and a gray, tobacco-stained mustache. His face was
covered with pimples, and a huge quid of tobacco was concealed under
his cheek. He was sitting on a chair tipped back rather beyond the
danger-point, and his feet rested on the rim which projected from the
stove half-way up. He made no effort to rise, but slowly extended a
grimy, clammy hand which Sam pressed with some hesitation.
"Glad to make your acquaintance, Captain," he drawled in a half-cracked
voice that suggested damaged lungs and vocal organs.
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