"Jim Pearson's outside with his car," Carl said excitedly, "and he'll
take us down. He's got to come right back--he's only going for some
booze--but we needn't come back if we don't want to. We'll have a drink
and give Hastings the once-over. How's to come along?"
"All right," Hugh agreed indifferently and began to pull on his baa-baa
coat. "I'm with you. A shot of gin might jazz me up a little."
Once in Hastings, Pearson drove to a private residence at the edge of
the town. The boys got out of the car and filed around to the back door,
which was opened to their knock by a young man with a hatchet face and
hard blue eyes.
"Hello, Mr. Pearson," he said with an effort to be pleasant. "Want some
gin?"
"Yes, and some Scotch, too, Pete--if you have it. I'll take two quarts
of Scotch and one of gin."
"All right." Pete led the way down into the cellar, switching on an
electric light when he reached the foot of the stairs. There was a small
bar in the rear of the dingy, underground room, a table or two, and
dozens of small boxes stacked against the wall.
It was Hugh's first visit to a bootlegger's den, and he was keenly
interested.
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