“You don't understand,” said Mollie Squint, tolerantly. “Sammy's nice to Agnes. Louie? Th' best he ever hands us is to sting us for our rolls, an' then go blow 'em on that blonde. There's a big difference, Nailer, if youse could only see it.”
“Well,” replied the Nailer, who boasted a heart untouched, “all I can say is youse dolls are too many for me! You've got me wingin'.”
Midnight!
The theatre of operations was a cigar store, in Canal Street near the Bowery. The Ghost was on the outside. The safe was a back number; to think of soup would have been paying it a compliment. After an hour's work with a can-opener, Sammy and Big Head declared themselves within ten minutes of the money. All that remained was to batter in the inner-lining of the box.
Big Head cocked a sudden and suspicious ear.
“What's that?” he whispered.
Sammy had just reversed the can-opener, for an attack upon that sheet-iron lining. He paused in mid-swing, and listened.
“It's a pinch,” he cried, crashing down the heavy iron tool with a cataract of curses. “It's a pinch, an' th' Ghost is in on it. Agnes had him right!”
It was a pinch sure enough. Even as Sammy spoke, Rocheford and Wertheimer of the Central Office were covering them with their pistols.
“Hands up!” came from Wertheimer.