Down went the gangster who was about to bring the loaded club on him on his right. Stanley hit clean and true. His fist caught the fellow under the chin and sent him flying backward until he tumbled against a wall, where he stood, gasping.
The other rascal, having seen that his “handy billy” had not injured the arm it had struck, gathered himself together and disappeared in the darkness with the celerity that told of his familiarity with the locality, as well as proving that he was a lively sprinter.
Stanley turned to look at the half-disabled ruffian who was leaning against the wall. But hardly had he got his eyes focused on the limp figure, when the gangster, by a powerful effort of will, slunk out of view also.
Where he went was not apparent. There were many holes and corners in that shady neighborhood, including doorways to houses which were like rat burrows to those who knew them.
“Let him go!” muttered Stanley, smiling. “He hasn’t done me any harm, and I could not bother to have him arrested, even if there were a policeman in sight. I suppose they were just common holdups. If one of them had landed on my head with a blackjack or sandbag, they might have got me, too. As it was, they don’t win. I’ll get to the lighted streets, however. I couldn’t afford to be knocked out a day or so before that big race. After that, it wouldn’t so much matter.”
He laughed aloud at the incident which had ended in what he regarded as rather a ludicrous manner, and went calmly back to his hotel, and soon afterward to bed.
About the time that Stanley Downs was undressing and thinking over the big contest in which he was to take part on the day after the morrow, Victor Burnham sat in the back room of a low saloon in a tough part of the city, talking to the two gangsters who had vainly endeavored to knock Stanley senseless.
“He spoiled it, did he?” grunted Burnham. “That shows that you fellows are not much good. I ought not to pay you. What you’ve done for me is just nothing.”
“We couldn’t help it,” snarled one of the ruffians. “We shadowed him for nearly an hour before we got a chance. Then somebody must have given him a tip, for he turned just as I landed on him with the billy. I got him on the arm, instead of the head. He didn’t pay no attention to me, but he cut loose a left hook that took Patsy in the jaw and laid him out stiff. I beat it, of course. There wasn’t nothing else to do. Later I met Patsy here, and here he is. He’ll tell you whether I’m lying or not.”
“I don’t suppose you’re lying,” interrupted Burnham disgustedly. “I only say you are no good. But here is your fifty dollars. If you can get him again before the race, I’ll make it a hundred more—a hundred apiece. If he doesn’t show up in the race, I’ll know that you’ve done it, and you’ll get your money right away.”