With some astonishment, therefore, Jimmy found that these revelations, so far from prejudicing the man with the revolver against him, had apparently told in his favour. The man behind the gun was regarding him rather with interest than disapproval.
“So you’re a crook from London, are you?”
Jimmy did not hesitate. If being a crook from London was a passport into citizens’ parlours in the small hours, and, more particularly, if it carried with it also a safe-conduct out of them, Jimmy was not the man to refuse the role. He bowed.
“Well, you’ll have to come across now you’re in New York. Understand that. And come across good.”
“Sure, he will,” said Spike, charmed that the tension had been relieved and matters placed upon a pleasant and business-like footing. “He’ll be good. He’s next to de game, sure.”
“Sure,” echoed Jimmy courteously. He did not understand; but things seemed to be taking a turn for the better, so why disturb the harmony?
“Dis gent,” said Spike respectfully, “is boss of de cops. A police-captain,” he corrected himself.
A light broke upon Jimmy’s darkness. He wondered he had not understood before. He had not been a newspaper-man in New York for a year without finding out something of the inner workings of the police force. He saw now why the other’s manner had changed.
“Pleased to meet you,” he said. “We must have a talk together one of these days.”
“We must,” said the police-captain significantly.