“One of your pipes is leakin', Tony,” said Jimmy, “leakin' for fair, too, or I'm a Dago!”
Tony, in refutation, called attention to a patent truth. He used electric light, not gas.
“But they use gas upstairs,” he added. Then, half-anxiously; “It can't be some hop-head has blown out the gas?”
The thought was enough to start the Dropper, ever full of enterprise.
“Let's have a look,” said he. “Nailer you an' th' Wop come wit' me.”
Tony again opened the front door, and the Dropper, followed by the Wop and the Nailer, filed into the stairway that led to the floor above. They made noise enough, blundering and stumbling in the sudden hurry of spirit which had gripped them. As they reached the landing near Mike's door, the odor of gas was even more pronounced than in Tony's rear room.
The hall was blind black with the thick darkness that filled it.
“How about this?” queried the Dropper. “I thought a gas jet was always boinin' in th' hall.”
The Dropper, growing fearful, hung back. With that, the Wop pushed forward and took the lead. Only for a moment. Giving a cry, he sprang back with such sudden force that he sent the Dropper headlong down the stairs.
“Th' Virgin save us!” exclaimed the Wop, “but I touched somethin' soft!”