“O.k., Cowboy, let’s go.”
As a member of the F. B. I., Mr. Sandborn was an expert shot with side arms, machine guns, or rifles, far better, in fact, than any of the gangster rats he had yet met up with. He now followed Mr. Nevens out of the office and down through the building into the underground passages. Wan Ho Din, who had been a silent listener to the incident, was now sent to get Dago. He returned presently with the swarthy mobster and the party adjourned to a special long gallery at the end of which moving figures traveled on endless tracks just as in any shooting gallery.
The contestants took turns with revolvers, automatics, and machine guns and the gallery rang with the rain of gunfire. It became very apparent that the new gunman of the Nevens’ gang was far superior to Dago who had previously been the best shot in the outfit and the fat man became angrier and angrier as the minutes passed.
“Well, Dago,” said Cowboy, “I guess that sort of washes you off the list as my right-hand man.”
“There’s one thing he ain’t done yet, Cowboy, and you was always one to say it had ta be done before you’d give me the gate!” sneered Dago, with hard eyes.
“And what might that be, Dago?”
“Let’s see how good-a this typewriter artist is with his fist in a free-for-all!” Dago cried, heatedly.
Mr. Sandborn knew what that meant—a fight free of rules. Anything would go! But he had to play this game through to the bitter end for the sake of law and order and the future of the F. B. I.
“Let’s get at it. O.k., Cowboy?”
Cowboy grinned with delight.