“Punchin' wouldn't do no good,” replied Pretty Agnes, resignedly. “This is how it stands. Sammy an' Big Head's gettin' ready to do a schlam job. They've let th' Ghost join out wit' 'em, an' I know he's goin' to give 'em up.”
The Nailer looked grave.
“Unless youse've got somethin' on him, Agnes.” he remonstrated, “you oughtn't to make a squawk like that. How do youse know he's goin' to rap?”
“Cause he always raps,” she cried fiercely. “Where's Mashier? Where's Marky Price? Where's Skinny Goodstein? Up th' river!—every mother's son of 'em! An' all his pals, once; every one! He's filled in wit' th' best boys that ever cracked a bin. An' every one of 'em's doin' their bits, while he's here drinkin' beer. I tell youse th' Ghost's a snitch! Youse can see 'Copper' written on his face.”
“If I t'ought so,” growled the Nailer, an evil shine in his beady eyes, “I'd croak him right here.” Then, as offering a solution: “If youse 're so sure he's a stool, w'y don't youse tail him an' see if he makes a meet wit' any bulls?”
“Tail nothin'!” scoffed Pretty Agnes, bitterly; “me mind's made up. All I'll do is wait. If Sammy falls, it'll be th' Ghost's last rap. I know a party who's crazy gone on me. For two weeks I've been handin' him th' ice pitcher. All I has to do is soften up a little, an' he'll cook th' Ghost th' minute I says th' woid.”
Pretty Agnes, as though the sight of the Ghost were too much for her feelings, left the place. The Ghost himself, appeared uneasy, and didn't remain long.
The Nailer turned soberly to Mollie Squint. “Do youse t'ink,” said he, “there's anythin' in that crack of Agnes?”
“Search me!” returned Mollie Squint, conservatively. “I ain't sayin' a woid.”
“It's funny about youse skoits,” remarked the Nailer, his manner an imitation of old Jimmy's. “Here's Agnes talkin' of havin' th' Ghost trimmed in case he tips off Sammy to th' dicks, an' yet when Slimmy an' th' Grabber puts Indian Louie over th' jump, neither Agnes nor you ever so much as yelps!”