“I don't t'ink so,” said Slimmy. “It's four for one they'll lay down to Ike.”
“Don't put your swell bet on it!” came warningly from Whitey Dutch; “them Gophers are as tough a bunch as ever comes down the pike.”
“Tough nothin'!” returned Slimmy: “they'll be duck soup to Ike.”
“Why don't you look into it?” I asked, turning to my friend. As a taxpayer, I yearned for some return on that $16,000,000 a year which New York City pays for its police.
That ornament of the Central Office yawned, and motioned to the waiter to bring his bill.
“That sort of thing is up to the cop on the beat,” said he.
“Whitey an' me 'ud get in on it,” explained Slimmy—his expression was one of half apology—“only you see we belong at th' other end of th' alley. We're Five Points; Ike an' Whitey Louie are Eastmans; an' in a clash between Eastmans an' Gophers, it's up to us to stand paws-off, see!”
“That's straight talk,” coincided Whitey.
“Suppose, seeing it's stopped raining, we drift over there,” said my friend, adjusting his Panama at the exact Central Office angle.
As we journeyed along, I noticed Slimmy and Whitey Dutch across the street. It was already written that Whitey Dutch, himself, would be shot to death in the Stag before the year was out; but the shadow of that impending taking-off was not apparent in his face. Indeed, from that face there shone forth only pleasure in anticipation, and a lively interest.