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provided you confined your efforts to those of your own district; but for a bunch

of yaps from south of Twelfth Street to attempt to pull off any such coarse work in

his bailiwick--why it was unthinkable.

A hero and rescuer of lesser experience than Billy Byrne would have rushed

melodramatically into the midst of the fray, and in all probability have had his

face pushed completely through the back of his head, for the guys from Twelfth

Street were not of the rah-rah-boy type of hoodlum--they were bad men, with an

upper case B. So Billy crept stealthily along in the shadows until he was quite

close to them, and behind them. On the way he had gathered up a cute little

granite paving block, than which there is nothing in the world harder, not even a

Twelfth Street skull. He was quite close now to one of the men--he who was

wielding the officer's club to such excellent disadvantage to the officer--and then

he raised the paving block only to lower it silently and suddenly upon the back of

that unsuspecting head--"and then there were two."

Before the man's companions realized what had happened Billy had possessed

himself of the fallen club and struck one of them a blinding, staggering blow

across the eyes. Then number three pulled his gun and fired point-blank at Billy.

The bullet tore through the mucker's left shoulder. It would have sent a more

highly organized and nervously inclined man to the pavement; but Billy was

neither highly organized nor nervously inclined, so that about the only immediate

effect it had upon him was to make him mad--before he had been but peeved--

peeved at the rank crust that had permitted these cheap-skates from south of

Twelfth Street to work his territory.

Thoroughly aroused, Billy was a wonder. From a long line of burly ancestors he

had inherited the physique of a prize bull. From earliest childhood he had fought,

always unfairly, so that he knew all the tricks of street fighting. During the past

year there had been added to Billy's natural fighting ability and instinct a

knowledge of the scientific end of the sport. The result was something appalling--

to the gink from Twelfth Street.

Before he knew whether his shot had killed Billy his gun had been wrenched from

his hand and flung across the street; he was down on the granite with a hand as

hard as the paving block scrambling his facial attractions beyond hope of recall.

By this time Patrolman Lasky had staggered to his feet, and most opportunely at

that, for the man whom Billy had dazed with the club was recovering. Lasky

promptly put him to sleep with the butt of the gun that he had been unable to

draw when first attacked, then he turned to assist Billy. But it was not Billy who

needed assistance--it was the gentleman from Bohemia. With difficulty Lasky

dragged Billy from his prey.

The Mucker