There were men who looked like dock
laborers, seamen, and riverside loafers; lascars, Chinese, Arabs, and
dagoes; and at the "solid" counter there presided a red-armed, brawny
woman, fierce of mien and ready of tongue, while a huge Irishman,
possessing a broken nose and deficient teeth, ruled the "liquid"
department with a rod of iron and a flow of language which shocked
even Kerry. This formidable ruffian, a retired warrior of the ring,
was Dougal, said to be the strongest man from Tower Hill to the River
Lea.
As they entered, several of the patrons glanced at them curiously, but
no one seemed to be particularly interested. Kerry wore his cap pulled
well down over his fierce eyes, and had the collar of his topcoat
turned up.
He looked about him, as if expecting to recognize someone; and as they
made their way to Dougal's counter, a big fellow dressed in the manner
of a dock laborer stepped up to the Chief Inspector and clapped him on
the shoulder.
"Have one with me, Mike," he said, winking. "The coffee's good."
Kerry bent towards him swiftly, and:
"Anybody here, Jervis?" he whispered.
"George Martin is at the bar. I've had the tip that he 'traffics.'
You'll remember he figured in my last report, sir.
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