So
I'm in a rispictible business again.... There's a new boss now, bad cess
to him! Chris Buckley.
"Him your Chinese friends call 'The Blind White Devil?' Yes, I've heard
of Chris."
"He keeps a saloon wid a gossoon name o' Fallon, on Bush street.... Go
up and see him, Misther Stanley.... He's a fair-speakin' felly I'm
told.... Ask him," Dennis whispered, nudging the writer's ribs with his
elbow, "ask him how his gambling place in Platt's Hall is coming on?"
* * * * *
Several days later Francisco entered the unpretentious establishment of
Christopher Buckley. He found it more like an office than a drinking
place; people sat about, apparently waiting their turn for an interview
with Buckley.
A small man, soft of tread and with a searching glance, asked Stanley's
business and, learning that the young man was a writer for the press,
blinked rapidly a few times; then he scuttled off, returning ere long
with the information that Buckley would "see Mr. Stanley." Soon he found
himself facing a pleasant-looking man of medium height, a moustache,
wiry hair tinged with gray, a vailed expression of the eyes, which
indicated some abnormality of vision, but did not reveal the almost
total blindness with which early excesses had afflicted
Christopher Buckley.
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