“Then what is it?”
“The thing would get in the newspapers,” said Mike.
“Suppose it did.”
“Then my place would be given a bad name; savvy?”
Burt was mad enough to eat Quick, but he felt compelled to laugh at the fellow’s conceit. In all New York there was not a more disreputable dive than Quick’s, and it had enjoyed that reputation for years.
“That’s all gammon,” remarked the detective. “Put up your gun.”
“I guess Cook has got far enough away now.”
Mike put the revolver in his pocket. That was what Burt was waiting for. With a catlike spring he landed directly in front of Quick, and planted his fist between that gentleman’s eyes. The attack was wholly unexpected by the dive-keeper. Mike fell like a log.
Burt turned the prostrate man over, and took possession of his revolver. Then he allowed Quick to rise. The latter was mad as a wild bull. He made a rush at the detective. Again Burt’s fist shot out.
The result was the same as before. The bartender and several others who were in the front room now appeared.