it his favorite pool
room, where, in an atmosphere blue with smoke, he would lounge in a
chair at a wall and exchange gossip of sport and sporting things with
other hangers-on. From there he might wander in upon a friendly "crap"
or card game behind the locked door of an unventilated room of a Spring
street "social club." Or he might go to one of the stuffy, over-heated
gymnasiums to watch some industrious and ambitious boxer in training.
That was his life and he was happy in it, a hand-to-mouth sort of
existence in which he was satisfied.

At intervals a thrill of the excitement of the adventure of the night
before, when he had played an important part in the trapping of "Gink"
Cummings and Gibson, returned to him. It was difficult for him to
realize that the mayor of Los Angeles had taken him by the hand, like a
brother, and thanked him and promised him the best job at his disposal
if he was re-elected. He remembered having told the mayor he could drive
like "Jimmy" Murphy, the racer, when they had sped out of the downtown
district and away from possible pursuit. He remembered how he had
patched a cut over the mayor's eye, a laceration caused by a piece of
the shattered windshield, with the skill of facial repair that he had
learned as a second at the Vernon ring.

The "Gallant kid" and Brennan, they were "regular guys," all right.
Brennan was a "wisecracker," all right, all right. Some day he'd tell
them why he was helping them. They thought he was doing it for the money
they gave him. He wouldn't "double-cross" the "Gink" or anyone else for
money, see? What kind of a "bird" did they take him for, anyway? A
"stool-pigeon"? He'd tell them why some day and they'd know that Tim
Murphy wasn't no "stool-pigeon." He'd tell them----

A rap on the door! He brought his feet down from the window-sill. The
"Gallant kid" or Brennan, probably, or, maybe it was his friend, the
mayor. He rose and, crossing the room, turned the key in the lock. He
was about to put his hand on the knob when the door pushed open toward
him and three men sidled into the room. Murphy cringed back as one of
them shut the door quickly, locked it and turned to face him, putting
the key in his pocket.

It was "Slim" Gray, the "Gink's" right-hand man!

"Slim" Gray, cold-eyed, his thin lips pressed tight together; "Slim"
Gray, hard, venomous, merciless, hate blazing in his eyes. And the other
two looking at him contemptuously, snarlingly. Two of the "Gin