nd imperfectly washed humanity.

Dougal's proved to be a kind of hut of wood and corrugated iron, not
unlike an army canteen. There were two counters, one at either end,
and two large American stoves. Oil lamps hung from the beams, and the
furniture was made up of trestle tables, rough wooden chairs, and empty
barrels. Coarse, thick curtains covered all the windows but one. The
counter further from the entrance was laden with articles of food, such
as pies, tins of bully-beef, and "saveloys," while the other was devoted
to liquid refreshment in the form of ginger-beer and cider (or so the
casks were conspicuously labelled), tea, coffee, and cocoa.

The place was uncomfortably crowded; the patrons congregating more
especially around the two stoves. 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."

Kerry nodded, and the trio elbowed their way to the counter. The
pseudo-dock hand was a detective attached to Leman Street, and one who
knew the night birds of East End London as few men outside their own
circles knew them.

"Three coffees, Pat," he cried, leaning across the shoulder of a heavy,
red-headed fellow who lolled against the counter. "And two lumps of
sugar in each."

"To hell wid yer sugar!" roared Dougal, grasping three cups deftly in
one hairy