roken and bleeding. They died in agony a few hours later.

"Don't, 'Slim,' don't!" he gasped.

"Out with it, then, who was that with you last night? Come through and
you can get out of town tonight."

Right then something happened inside of Murphy, something a psychologist
might be able to describe in vague scientific terms. He became possessed
of a desperate courage far greater than he had ever dreamed of having.
In that moment of metamorphosis he became a fatalist. He realized that
whether he gave "Slim" the information he sought or not the result would
be the same. The life would be kicked and beaten out of him. The
"Gink," to save himself and Gibson at all hazards, would not take a
further chance by permitting him to live.

Then why should he give up? Why should he surrender to "Slim" and his
"bashers" if he could gain nothing by it? He'd like to be able to live
just long enough to tell the mayor and Brennan and the "Gallant kid" the
real reason that he helped them trap Cummings and Gibson. He didn't want
them to think he had sold himself for money. And even if they killed him
now, Brennan and the "Gallant kid" would know that he died trying to
protect them, that he wasn't a contemptible "squealer" after all.

As he straightened up from the prone position into which he had been
thrown by Louie, he saw, out of the corner of his eye, the pillow under
his bed and there flashed into his mind the realization that under it
was his revolver. If he could only get it somehow.

"Let's hear it. Who was with you?" demanded "Slim."

Murphy's long dormant imagination began to work. For the purpose of
deceiving "Slim" he must keep a mask of servile fear on his face.

"Let me get a shot of hooch, 'Slim,' and I'll tell ya everything," he
whimpered. He rose timidly from his chair. Louie and the other "basher"
started toward him, but stopped at a gesture from "Slim."

He went to the battered, flat-topped dresser a few feet from the bed and
pulled open a drawer. From it he took a bottle of whisky. Pretending
that the cork was stuck he worked with it fumblingly to get time in
which to think. He would take a drink, feign that it choked him, stagger
to the head of the bed, stumble on to the pillow and then come up with
the revolver in his hand. Then he would have them!

He lifted the bottle to his mouth and gulped. He let the bottle fall
from his hand as he choked and gasped for breath, sputtering the fiery
liquor from his lips.