Whistler struck again with all his savage strength. This time Dashington dropped silently to his knees and fell on his back, with his head over the curb.
"I reckon that will do him," laughed Jurgens. "Jump in, Whistler. We'll be out of town before he gets back his wits, and it's dollars to dimes he won't say a word to the police."
Whistler laughed grimly as he pulled the crank and then sprang into the automobile. In another moment the machine had chugged away.
Perhaps it was five minutes before Dashington groaned, opened his eyes and sat up. The stillness of the night was all around him.
"Blanked!" he muttered, lifting both hands to his aching head. "They knocked me a twister and got away on the high speed. Oh, what a frost! It's a hot night, but I'm a dub if I haven't got chilblains. Yes, little one, you played the game like a farmer—the genuine, blown-in-the-bottle Easy Mark. Dashed again. I ought to be used to the double-cross by now, it's been dumped onto me so many times. Ouch, my head! I'd like to pull off the block and play football with it—that's about all it's good for."
Dashington got up and leaned against a China ball tree.
"Feel like I'd been smoking some new brand of dope," he went on, waiting for the darkened landscape to stop whirling and stay where it belonged. "This game of graft don't pay," he went on moodily. "I'm always the monk that pulls the hot nuts out of the fire for some other strong-arm guy, and I'm getting weary on the job. What funny noises a fellow hears after a jolt like that!"
Still leaning against the tree, Dashington began rubbing his head.
"Why not cut out the crooked work and be decent?" he mumbled thoughtfully. "I've trotted heats with dips, second-story men, and sand-bag experts, and every last one of 'em has blanked me when it came to the showdown. Why not break away from the swift game and take a job at five per, with three honest square meals and a place to bunk? When you turn the X-rays on this grafting game, there's nothing in it."
He left the tree and stepped from the curb to pick up a dark object on the ground. He thought it was his hat, but it turned out to be a coat.