“I must chase round an' look her over,” was Louie's anxious conclusion. “W'at's that Dago joint she's at?”
“It's be th' corner,” said the Grabber, “an' up stairs. I forgets the wop's monaker.” As Louie hesitated over these vague directions, the Grabber set down his glass. “Say, to show there's no hard feelin', I'll go wit' youse.”
As Louie and the Grabber disappeared through the door, Candy Phil threw up both hands as one astonished to the verge of nervous shock.
“Well, w'at do youse think of that?” he exclaimed. “I always figgered Louie had bats in his belfry; now I knows it. They'll croak him sure!” Nigger Ruhl and the Lobster Kid arose as though to follow. At this, Candy Phil broke out fiercely.
“W'at's wrong wit' youse stews? Stick where you be!”
“But they'll cook Louie!” expostulated the Lobster Kid.
“It ain't no skin off your nose if they do. W'y should youse go buttin' in?”
Louie and the Grabber were in Twelfth Street, hurrying towards Second Avenue. Not a soul, except themselves, was abroad. The Grabber walked on Louie's right, which showed that either the latter was not the gunplayer he pretended, or the word from Laura had thrown him off his guard.
Suddenly, as the pair passed a dark hallway, the Grabber's left arm stole round Louie's neck.
“About that dough, Louie!” hissed the Grabber, at the same time tightening his left arm.