Pinning my badge on the outside of my coat, I kicked open the door of the "Tim O'Healy Social and Civic Club," and covered the crowd of twenty young toughs who were in the room.
"Hands up," I ordered. They obeyed sullenly.
"I want Blackie," I said, "and no funny work from the rest of you."
For a moment they were irresolute.
"Say. You're making a damn fool of yourself," one of them protested, "Blackie's president of this club—he's right next to the Old Man. You'll get broke sure."
"Shut up. The Old Man sent me," I lied. "Blackie's been getting too fly."
"Hell!" another piped up. "I seen the Old Man shake hands wid him an hour ago."
"Cut it out, kid," I replied. "You talk too much. How long's the Old Man been in the habit of warning guys he's going to light on?"
My lie worked—and saved bloodshed. It was the old tragedy of Cardinal Wolsey acted over again. None of the gang was really afraid of my revolver. One rush would have finished me. But they were all afraid of the Old Man's ire. They drew away from Blackie.
"It's a lie," he growled. "Me and the Old Man's friends."