e approach from the westerly regions where lay Headquarters.
So, keeping in the deeper shadows close to the building, Larry took the
eastern course of the street, remembering in a flash a skiff he had seen
tethered to a scow moored to the pier which stretched like a pointer
finger from the little Square. As yet he had no plan beyond the
necessity of the present moment, which was flight. Could he but make
that skiff unseen and cast off, he would have time, in the brief
sanctuary which the black river would afford him, to formulate the
wisest procedure his predicament permitted him.

As he came near that smothered glow-worm of a street-lamp it assumed for
him the betraying glare of a huge spot-light. But it had to be passed to
gain the skiff; and with collar turned up and hat-brim pulled down and
head hunched low, he entered the dim sphere of betrayal, walked under
its penny's-worth of flame, and glided toward the shadows beyond, his
eyes straining with the preternatural keenness of the hunted at every
stoop and doorway before him.

He was just passing out of the sphere of mist-light--the lamp being now
at his back helped him--when he saw three vague figures lurking half a
dozen paces ahead of him. His brain registered these vague figures with
the instantaneity of a snapshot camera at full noon. They were mere
shadows; but the farther of the three seemed to be Barney Palmer--he
was not sure; but of the identity of the other two there was no doubt:
"Little Mick" and "Lefty Ed," both members high in the councils of
the Ginger Bucks, and either of whose services as a killer could be
purchased for a hundred dollars or a paper of cocaine, depending upon
which at the moment there was felt the greater need.

In the very instant that he saw, Larry doubled about and ran at full
speed back up the street. Two shots rang out; Larry could not
tell whether they were fired by Little Mick or Lefty Ed or Barney
Palmer--that is, if the third man really were Barney. Again two shots
were fired, then came the sound of pursuing feet. Luckily not one of the
bullets had touched Larry; for the New York professional gunman is
the premier bad shot of all the world, and cannot count upon his
marksmanship, unless he can get his weapon solidly anchored against his
man, or can sneak around to the rear and pot his unsuspecting victim in
the back.

As Larry neared the pawnshop with the intention of making his escape
through the western stretch of the