“Come,” urged Twist to the sergeant, “it's next to nine o'clock now. Fix up the bond; I've got a date over in East Broadway at nine-thirty.”
While Twist stood thus enforcing his whereabouts and the hour upon the attention of the desk sergeant, Dahl was eating a beefsteak in a Houston street restaurant.
“What time have youse got?” demanded Dahl of the German who kept the place.
“Five minutes to nine,” returned the German, glancing up at the clock.
“Oh, t'aint no such time as that,” retorted Dahl peevishly. “That clock's drunk! Call up the telephone people, and find out for sure.”
“The 'phone people say it's nine o'clock,” reported the German, hanging up the receiver.
“Hully gee! I didn't think it was more'n halfpast eight!” and Dahl looked virtuously corrected.
While these fragments of talk were taking place, the Bottler was attending to his stuss interests. He looked pale and frightened, and his hunted eyes roved here and there. Five minutes went by. The clock pointed to nine. A slouch-hat stranger entered. As the clock struck the hour, he placed the muzzle of a pistol against the Bottler's breast, and fired twice. Both bullets pierced the heart, and the Bottler fell—dead without a word. There were twenty people in the room. When the police arrived they found only the dead Bottler.
O'Farrell recalled those trade differences which had culminated in the charge of disturbance, and arrested Dahl.
“You ain't got me right,” scoffed Dahl.