The two men pressed their way through along the narrow passage, finding less obstruction as they advanced, the second block being composed entirely of houses, largely of the tenement type, and apparently principally populated by children.  Wray Street, once attained, was of an entirely different character, being lined with homes, usually humble enough outwardly, yet the throughfare was clean, and the small yards had generally an appearance of neatness in marked contrast to its surroundings. 238 was a three story brick, on the corner, the second story evidently utilized for living purposes, and the ground floor occupied as a saloon.  The upper story exhibited no signs of occupancy, the windows unwashed, and two of them boarded up.  The saloon possessed a fairly respectable appearance, the lettering across the front window proclaiming it as “Mike’s Place,” and seemed to be doing some business, several entering and departing by way of its hospitable door, while the two lingered in uncertainty opposite.  Standing there idly however did not appeal to West.

“Well, let’s go over,” he said impatiently.  “There is nothing to be learned here.”

It was an ordinary bar-room, and their entrance apparently aroused no special interest.  Besides the man behind the bar, a rather rough looking foreigner, a Pole in West’s judgment, three customers were in the place, two with feet upon the rail talking with the drink dispenser, and, one at a small table moodily contemplating a half emptied stein of beer.  There were three other tables in the room, and the Captain with a swift glance about, drew out a chair and sat down, his action being imitated by Sexton.  The bar-tender came forward around the end of the bar, while the man nearest shifted his position slightly so as to look them over, conversation instantly ceasing.  Something indefinable in the fellow’s attitude, and steady stare, gave West a feeling of hostility, which was not dispelled by the gruff greeting of the bar-tender.

“Well, what is it you fellers want?”

“A stein apiece, and a sandwich—­you serve them, don’t you?”

“Sure; ham or beef?”

“Ham.”

There was no cordiality, no welcome in either manner or speech.  It was plainly evident the proprietor of the saloon felt no enthusiasm over his unknown customers.  The eyes of the two men met understandingly, but the few words exchanged between them were entirely foreign to the situation.  Mike came back with the beer and sandwiches, pausing this time to wipe off the table, as an excuse for speech.

“You guys live ’round here?” he asked gruffly, “Don’t remember ever seein’ yer in here before.”

“No,” returned West indifferently, looking directly into the hard face.  “I’m a smoke inspector, an’ we just dropped in on our way back to the office.  Why?”

“Oh, nuthin’; only we don’t get much trade outside the neighbourhood.  I wish ter hell ye’d get after that tannery; can’t hardly breathe here sometimes.”