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Adrift in New York Tom and Florence Braving the World

Creator: Alger, Horatio, 1832-1899
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It was kept by Tim Bolton, whose peculiar tastes and shady characteristics well fitted him for such a business. It was early evening, and the gas jets lighted up a characteristic scene. On the sanded floor were set several tables, around which were seated a motley company, all of them with glasses of beer or whiskey before them. Tim, with a white apron on, was moving about behind the bar, ministering to the wants of his patrons. There was a scowl upon his face, for he was not fond of work, and he missed Dodger's assistance. The boy understood the business of mixing drinks as well as he, and often officiated for hours at a time, thus giving his guardian and reputed father a chance to leave the place and meet outside engagements. A tall, erect gentleman entered the saloon, and walked up to the bar. "Good-evening, colonel," said Tim. "Good-evening, sir," said the newcomer, with a stately inclination of the head.
Fires and Firemen: from the Eclectic Magazine of Foreign Literature, Science and Art, Vol XXXV No. 1, May 1855

1: Fires and Firemen Annual Reports of Mr. Braidwood to the Committee of the Fire Brigade [From the Quarterly Review] Among the more salient features of the Metropolis which instantly strike the attention of the stranger are the stations of the Fire Brigade. Whenever he happens to pass them, he finds the sentinel on duty, he sees the "red artillery" of the force; and the polished axle, the gleaming branch, and the shining chain, testify to the beautiful condition of the instrument, ready for active service at a moment's notice. Ensconced in the shadow of the station, the liveried watchmen look like hunters waiting for their prey--nor does the hunter move quicker to his quarry at the rustle of a leaf, than the Firemen dash for the first ruddy glow in the sky. No sooner comes the alarm than one sees with a shudder the rush of one of these engines through the crowded streets--the tearing horses covered with foam--the heavy vehicle swerving from side to side, and the black helmeted attendants swaying to and fro. The wonder is that horses or men ever get safely to their destination; the wonder is still greater that no one is ridden over in their furious drive.
He was really a colonel, having served in the Civil War at the head of a Georgia regiment. He had all the stately courtesy of a Southern gentleman, though not above the weakness of a frequent indulgence in the strongest fluids dispensed by Tim Bolton. "What'll you have, colonel?" "Whiskey straight, sir. It's the only drink fit for a gentleman. Will you join me, Mr. Bolton?" "Of course, I will," said Tim, as, pouring out a glass for himself, he handed the bottle to the colonel. "Your health, sir," said the colonel, bowing. "Same to you, colonel," responded Tim, with a nod. "Where's the boy?" Col. Martin had always taken considerable notice of Dodger, being naturally fond of boys, and having once had a son of his own, who was killed in a railroad accident when about Dodger's age.