“By the Lord, I've croaked Phil!” was the exclamation of Whitey, addressed to no one in particular.
They were Whitey's last words; some one shoved the muzzle of a gun against his temple, and he fell by the side of Casey.
No sure list of dead and wounded for that evening's battle of the Stag will ever be compiled. The guests scattered like a flock of blackbirds. Some fled limping and groaning, others nursing an injured arm, while three or four, too badly hurt to travel, were dragged into nooks of safety by friends who'd come through untouched. There was blood to the east, blood to the west, on the Twenty-eighth Street pavements, and a wounded gentleman was picked up in Broadway, two blocks away. The wounded one, full of a fine prudence and adhering strictly to gang teachings, declared that the bullet which had struck him was a bullet of mystery. Also, he gave his word of honor that, personally, he had never once heard of the Stag.
When the police reached the field of battle—wearing the ill-used airs of folk who had been unwarrantably disturbed—they found Casey and Whitey Dutch dead on the floor, and Fog-eye groaning in a corner. To these—counting the injured Brother Bill and the prudent one picked up in Broadway, finally identified as Sanky Dunn—rumor added two dead and eleven wounded.
Leoni?
The Central Office dicks who met that lamp of loveliness the other evening in Broadway reported her as in abundant spirits, and more beautiful than ever. She had received a letter from McTaffe, she said, who sent his love, and her eyes shone like twin stars because of the joy she felt.
“Mack always had a good heart,” said Leoni.
Paper-Box Johnny—all in tears—bore sorrowful word of her loss to Mrs. Casey, calling that matron from her slumbers to receive it. Paper-Box managed delicately.
“It's time to dig up black!” sobbed Paper-Box; “they've copped Phil.
“Copped Phil?” repeated Mrs. Casey, sleepily. “Where is he?”