When Clay rose to leave the diner he knew that he meant
to sit in and take a hand.

Either the Limited was ahead of its time schedule or the engineer had
orders to run into the city very slowly. The train was creeping
through the thickly settled quarter where the poorer people are herded
when Clay touched Durand on the shoulder.

"Like to see you a moment in the vestibule," he said in his gentle
voice.

The eyes of the two men met and the gambler knew at once that this man
and he were destined to be enemies. Some sixth sense of safety,
cultivated by a lifetime of battle, flashed him sure warning of this.
The fellow meant to make trouble of some kind. The former
near-champion of the ring had not the least idea what about or in what
way. Nor did he greatly care. He had supreme confidence in his
ability to look after himself. It was one factor of the stock in trade
that had made him a dominant figure in the underworld of New York. He
was vain enough to think that if it came to the worst there were few
men living who could best him in a rough-and-tumble fight. Certainly
no hill-billy from Arizona could do it.

No man had ever said that Jerry Durand was not game. He rose promptly
and followed the Westerner from the car, swinging along with the light,
catlike tread acquired by many pugilists.

The floor of the vestibule had been raised and the outer door of the
car opened. Durand found time to wonder why.

The cowpuncher turned on him with an abrupt question. "Can you swim?"

The eyes of the ward boss narrowed. "What's that to you?" he demanded
truculently.

"Nothin' to me, but a good deal to you. I'm aimin' to drop you in the
river when we cross."

"Is that so?" snarled Durand. "You're quite a joker, ain't you? Well,
you can't start somethin' too soon to suit me. But let's get this
clear so we'll know where we're at. What's ailin' you, rube?"

"I don't like the color of yore hair or the cut of yore clothes,"
drawled Lindsay. "You've got a sure-enough bad eye, and I'm tired of
travelin' in yore company. Let's get off, me or you one."

In the slitted eyes of the Bowery graduate there was no heat at all.
They were bleak as a heavy winter morn. "Suits me fine. You'll not
travel with me much farther. Here's where you beat the place."

The professional lashed out suddenly with his left. But Clay was not
at the receiving end of the blow. Always quick as chain lightning, he
had ducked and clinc