Stone had one peculiarity. Knowing that he had enemies, and those among the most reckless class in the world, he seldom allowed himself to be caught alone; but every night he held counsel with some of his followers at a certain respectable beer-garden where, in the summer-time, a long table in a quiet, half-screened corner was reserved for him and his followers, and in the winter a back room was given up for the same purpose. Here Stone transacted all the real business of his local organization, drinking beer, reviving strange-looking callers, and confining his own remarks to a grunted yes or no, or a brief direction. Every night at about nine-thirty he rose, yawned, and, unattended, walked back through the beer-garden to the alley, where he stood for some five minutes. This was his retreat for uninterrupted thought, and when he came back from it he had the day’s developments summed up and the necessary course of action resolved upon.
On the second night after the attempted assault upon Bobby he had no sooner closed the alley door behind him than a man sprang upon him from either side, a heavy hand was placed over his mouth, and he was dragged to the ground, where a third brawny thug straddled his chest and showed him a long knife.
“See it?” demanded the man as he passed the blade before Stone’s eyes. “It’s hungry. You let ’em clip my brother in stir for a three-stretch when you could have saved him with a grunt, and if I wasn’t workin’ under orders, in half an hour they’d have you on slab six with ice packed around you and a sheet over you. But we’re under orders. We’re part of the reform committee, we are,” and all three of them laughed silently, “and there’s a string of us longer than the Christmas bread-line, all crazy for a piece of this getaway coin. And here’s the little message I got to give you. This time you’re to go free. Next time you’re to have your head beat off. This thuggin’ of peaceable citizens has got to be stopped; see?”
A low whistle from a man stationed at the mouth of the alley interrupted the speech which the man with the knife was enjoying so much, and he sprang from the chest of Stone, who had been struggling vainly all this time. As the man sprang up and started to run, he suddenly whirled and gave Stone a vicious kick upon the hip, and as Stone rose, another man kicked him in the ribs. All three of them ran, and Stone, scrambling to his feet with difficulty, whipped his revolver from his pocket and snapped it. Long disused, however, the trigger stuck, but he took after them on foot in spite of the pain of the two fearful kicks that he had received. Instead of darting straight out of the alley, the men turned in at a small gate at the side of a narrow building on the corner, and slammed the gate behind them. He could hear the drop of the wooden bolt. He knew perfectly that entrance. It was to the littered back yard of a cheap saloon, at the side of which ran a narrow passageway to the street beyond, where street-cars passed every half-minute.
Just as he came furiously up to the gate a policeman darted in at the alley mouth, and, catching the glint of Stone’s revolver, whipped his own. He ran quite fearlessly to Stone, and with a dextrous blow upon the wrist sent the revolver spinning.
“You’re under arrest,” said he.
For just one second he covered his man, then his arm dropped and his jaw opened in astonishment.
“Why, it’s Stone!” he exclaimed.
“Yes, damn you, it’s Stone!” screamed the Boss, livid with fury, and overcome with anger he dealt the policeman a staggering blow in the face. “You damned flat-foot, I’ll teach you to notice who you put your hands on! Give me that badge!”
White-faced and with trembling fingers, and with a trickle of blood starting slowly from a cut upon his cheek, the man unfastened his badge.