he saw Louie and Joe step back from him. He shut
his eyes. They were going to kick him to death. If he could only--but
why didn't they move? Why didn't they kick him? What were they waiting
for?

Unable to believe his eyes, he saw the legs of Louie and Joe take
backward steps until they were back against the wall. Did they think he
was "out"? Were they leaving him for dead? Fascinated, he stared at the
legs of the bruisers and then he heard a voice, a voice he recognized.

"Keep 'em up," the voice commanded, coldly, evenly, "Keep 'em up. The
first one of you that tries moving gets it, understand?"

Slowly John lifted his head. It ached splittingly and lolled heavily on
his shoulders. Weakly he pressed his hand against his cut forehead,
stopping the blood from dripping over his eyes. Blinking to clear his
vision he looked around the room.

In the doorway stood Brennan, a .45 caliber army model automatic in his
hand; a very different Brennan from the reporter John knew. A Brennan
with eyes as cold as the steel of the gun he gripped; a Brennan with an
unwavering hand and a steady voice; a Brennan like the hero of the
stories he told of brave men leading forlorn-hope charges. Good old
Brennan! He had them, all right. Good old Brennan!

With their backs to the wall, their hands high above their heads, stood
"Slim" Gray, Louie and Joe, ghastly pale, staring as if they were
hypnotized at the pistol that pointed toward them.

"Drop that sap!" Brennan snapped.

The black-jack fell from Louie's upraised hand, bouncing as it hit his
shoulder and dropped to the floor.

"How badly are you hurt, Gallant?" Brennan asked, without looking away
from his three prisoners.

"I'm--I'm all right," John replied, struggling to his feet. "Good old
Brennan," he added, essaying a smile.

"Good old nothing," said Brennan. "Wrap a towel around that head of
yours and if you think you can make it, get downstairs to a phone. Get
Sweeney; he's back at central station now."

John staunched the flow of blood with a towel and, faint from the reflex
action of the blows he had endured, walked falteringly out of the room.
At the door Brennan stepped to one side to allow him to pass, but never
took his eyes from the three men with their hands above their heads.

The clerk at the corner cigar store gaped when John, the crimson stained
towel swathed about his head, walked in to the telephone. In less than a
minute he had Chief Sweeney on the wire.