Black Tom's, to the front, presented the appearance of
a fourth-rate saloon, devoted to Kanaka seamen, dirt,
negrohead tobacco, bad cigars, worse gin, and guitars
and banjos in a state of decline. The proprietor, a
powerful coloured man, was at once a publican, a ward
politician, leader of some brigade of "lambs" or
"smashers," at the wind of whose clubs the party bosses
and the mayor were supposed to tremble, and (what hurt
nothing) an active and reliable crimp. His front
quarters, then, were noisy, disreputable, and not even
safe. I have seen worse-frequented saloons where there
were fewer scandals; for Tom was often drunk himself:
and there is no doubt the Lambs must have been a useful
body, or the place would have been closed. I remember
one day, not long before an election, seeing a blind
man, very well dressed, led up to the counter and
remain a long while in consultation with the negro.
The pair looked so ill-assorted, and the awe with which
the drinkers fell back and left them in the midst of an
IMPROMPTU privacy was so unusual in such a place,
that I turned to my next neighbour with a question.
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