Spike slapped the table with his hands so hard that every one in the room turned to look, but Spike was too earnest to notice this. To Morris he said:
“Yer right, kid, yer dead right. Yer’ve got a big line. Now, see here, I know who did de job. I’m dead certain of that, dough dey won’t say dey did. But wid what you give me I’ll make ’em talk on de level. Now, kid, youse must git out of here, for dem as I t’inks did it will be here soon. I’m on de dead level wid youse and you got yer rake in whatever I pulls off.”
“All right,” said Morris.
He got up from the table, pulled his hat over his brows, and then swaggered out of the barroom.
Reaching Thirty-fourth Street he walked to the west quite rapidly and on the second corner above as he turned to the left he came into close contact with another, an encounter which caused him to step back with a decided start.
Then he laughed aloud, most heartily, and if at nothing else, at the look of vast astonishment which spread over the face of the other person. Both the laugh and the look of astonishment were justified.
The man he had encountered was an exact duplicate of himself. They needed but a band between them to become Siamese twins.
Finally, recovering from his astonishment a bit, the other reached out as if he would take Morris by the shoulders, saying:
“Here, cull, wot’s all dis?”
“It’s all right, Bally Morris,” replied the other, who himself had been called by that name by Spike Thomas.