"Drop that sap!" Brennan snapped.
The black-jack fell from Louie's upraised hand, bouncing as it hit his shoulder and dropped to the floor.
"How badly are you hurt, Gallant?" Brennan asked, without looking away from his three prisoners.
"I'm—I'm all right," John replied, struggling to his feet. "Good old Brennan," he added, essaying a smile.
"Good old nothing," said Brennan. "Wrap a towel around that head of yours and if you think you can make it, get downstairs to a phone. Get Sweeney; he's back at central station now."
John staunched the flow of blood with a towel and, faint from the reflex action of the blows he had endured, walked falteringly out of the room. At the door Brennan stepped to one side to allow him to pass, but never took his eyes from the three men with their hands above their heads.
The clerk at the corner cigar store gaped when John, the crimson stained towel swathed about his head, walked in to the telephone. In less than a minute he had Chief Sweeney on the wire.
"Chief, this is Gallant—John Gallant," he said.
"Yes, what is it?"
"We've got the men who beat up Murphy."