"I wonder if Lem Wacker has sold the dog, too?" he reflected. "Poor Mrs.
Wacker! I feel awfully sorry for her."
Bart walked rapidly back the way he had come. It was just a quarter of
seven when he reached a half-street extending along and facing the
railroad tracks for a single square.
The Sharp Corner was a second-class groggery and boarding house,
patronized almost entirely by the poorest and most shiftless class of
trackmen.
Its proprietor was one Silas Green, once a switchman, later a prize
fighter, always a hard drinker, and latterly so crippled with rheumatism
and liquor that he was just able to get about.
Bart went into the place to find its proprietor just opening up for the
day. The dead, tainted air of the den made the young express agent
almost faint. As it vividly contrasted with the sweet, garden scented
atmosphere of home, he wondered how men could make it their haunt, and
was sorry that even business had made it necessary for him to enter the
place.
"Mr. Green," he said, approaching the bar, "I am looking for Lem Wacker.
Can you tell me where I may find him?"
"Eh? oh, young Stirling, isn't it? Wacker? Why, yes, I know where he
is.
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