As Micky was whirled southward, in an open trolley car, he reflected upon his dubious assignment. How should he conduct his campaign? It will be readily gathered that newspaper men were not especially popular at Goldberg's. Most of the representative city sheets, irrespective of political leanings, had for years been flaying the fifth ward king, seeking to uncrown him. Thus far it had been without avail. Not yet had the decent element been able to throw off the thrall. This was because they had been indulging in that practice which so universally blocks the wheels of progress in most lines, the pastime of quarreling among themselves in regard to the most desirable means to the end. So Shaughnessy and Goldberg, their colleagues and all they represented and misrepresented, were still in control, and buying larger burglar-proof safes. The newspapers had kept the quarreling factions of the perennially defeated party informed as to this growing prosperity, as well as they were able to ascertain regarding it. Naturally the gang's leaders and their mates resented this, for it favored the chances of the opposing party's factions finally getting together and putting the whole evil crew out of commission. When a man has begun to make easy money, he mourns to break off the habit; nor does he view with pleasure attempts to compel him to do so.
Micky hoped he could get his story quietly, for discovery of his errand in that unfriendly atmosphere would probably mean failure and perhaps a broken head. However, he hardly thought he would encounter anyone he knew there, so would trust to luck.
Alighting from the car at the end of South Avenue, he made his way through a tangle of dark, rank thoroughfares, which grew dingier and more disreputable as he continued, till he came to the street, little more than an alley, where Goldberg's flourished like a green bay tree,—late in season, for the structure needed painting. Low and dingy, squat and ugly, it crouched between a couple of cheap brick tenements like a stolid, sullen beast of prey; its few small windows alight with a dull red glow, like vengeful eyes. From within there came the discordant brawling of a cracked phonograph. A couple of red-eyed human derelicts, stupid with drink, lounged against the portal as Micky entered.
It was quiet enough now. There were no signs of a disturbance. Micky was chagrined. He had hoped to arrive before the trouble, whatever it had been, was over; if not in the thick of it, at least before the participants had dispersed. He could then follow some of the interested parties and secure the details, for he knew his game too well to have meditated seriously the idea of making any pointed inquiries in the dive itself. That would mean an instant awakening on the part of the questioned to the fact that a newspaper man was present. If he persisted, there might ensue rough treatment and a swift and painful exodus. However, he found it as quiet as the grave. It was apt to be so at Goldberg's after a rumpus. Micky shrewdly guessed that the end of the trouble had been the signal for a general discretionary scattering. There were present only the bartender and two men who stood against the bar, their backs to him. Micky noticed with relief that Goldberg was not present. It was as well, for Micky and he had met.
Micky walked slowly to the end of the big low-ceilinged room and seated himself at a small beer-splashed table. He chafed inwardly. What had happened? Had the police arrived and gone, if indeed they knew anything about it? Or, worse luck, had some man from a rival paper anticipated him?
These disturbing reflections came simultaneously with O'Byrn's seating himself. As he did so, a step sounded behind him and a form sank into a chair at his left, facing his own table.
Micky's heart bounded. Luck was with him after all. "How 're ye, Slade?" he sang out, with cordiality tempered with a sly wink. "I just got in from the Speedway track. Just enough left to save hitting the ties home." Micky's horsy clothes bore out the bluff.
Nick Slade was no fool. He caught the situation at a glance. Micky had rendered him a service only a week before, the little Irishman's blarney rescuing him from a prospective entanglement with the talons of a policeman. Slade was a shred of a fellow, with a lean dark face and black eyes that were as impersonal as a Chinaman's, as they gazed into Micky's warning blue ones.
"To the bad, eh?" he rejoined, with a dry grin in the direction of the men at the other end of the room, whom he was facing while Micky's back was toward them. "If you'd cut out layin' your own coin, and stick to business in tippin' off the guys who can afford to lose it, you'd be better off. I told you not to go up against that bum line of selling-platers."
"Well, I've got enough left to have a drink on it anyway," replied Micky, with reckless prodigality, rapping on the table for the bartender. "Lap up with me. Say what."