Cork McManus and the bookbindery girl conversed absorbedly, with their elbows on the table. Their glasses of beer were pushed to one side, scarcely touched, with the foam on them sunken to a thin white scum. Since the stroke of one the stale pleasures of Rooney's had become renov- ated and spiced; not by any addition to the list of distractions, but be- cause from that moment the sweets became stolen ones. The flattest glass of beer acquired the tang of illegality; the mildest claret punch struck a knockout blow at law and order; the harmless and genial company be- came outlaws, defying authority and rule. For after the stroke of one in
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such places as Rooney's, where neither bed nor board is to be had, drink may not be set before the thirsty of the city of the four million. It is the law.
"Say," said Cork McManus, almost covering the table with his eloquent chest and elbows, "was that dead straight about you workin' in the book- bindery and livin' at home—and just happenin' in here—and—and all that spiel you gave me?"
"Sure it was," answered the girl with spirit. "Why, what do you think? Do you suppose I'd lie to you? Go down to the shop and ask 'em. I handed it to you on the level."
"On the dead level?" said Cork. "That's the way I want it; because—" "Because what?"
"I throw up my hands," said Cork. "You've got me goin'. You're the girl
I've been lookin' for. Will you keep company with me, Ruby?"
"Would you like me to—Eddie?"
"Surest thing. But I wanted a straight story about—about yourself, you know. When a fellow had a girl—a steady girl—she's got to be all right, you know. She's got to be straight goods." "You'll find I'll be straight goods, Eddie."
"Of course you will. I believe what you told me. But you can't blame me for wantin' to find out. You don't see many girls smokin' cigarettes in places like Rooney's after midnight that are like you."
The girl flushed a little and lowered her eyes. "I see that now," she said meekly. "I didn't know how bad it looked. But I won't do it any more. And I'll go straight home every night and stay there. And I'll give up ci- garettes if you say so, Eddie—I'll cut 'em out from this minute on." Cork's air became judicial, proprietary, condemnatory, yet sympathet- ic. "A lady can smoke," he decided, slowly, "at times and places. Why? Because it's bein' a lady that helps her pull it off."
"I'm going to quit. There's nothing to it," said the girl. She flicked the
stub of her cigarette to the floor.
"At times and places," repeated Cork. "When I call round for you of evenin's we'll hunt out a dark bench in Stuyvesant Square and have a puff or two. But no more Rooney's at one o'clock—see?"
"Eddie, do you really like me?" The girl searched his hard but frank
features eagerly with anxious eyes.
"On the dead level."
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"When are you coming to see me—where I live?"
"Thursday—day after to-morrow evenin'. That suit you?"
"Fine. I'll be ready for you. Come about seven. Walk to the door with me to-night and I'll show you where I live. Don't forget, now. And don't you go to see any other girls before then, mister! I bet you will, though." "On the dead level," said Cork, "you make 'em all look like rag-dolls to me. Honest, you do. I know when I'm suited. On the dead level, I do." Against the front door down-stairs repeated heavy blows were de- livered. The loud crashes resounded in the room above. Only a trip-ham- mer or a policeman's foot could have been the author of those sounds. Rooney jumped like a bullfrog to a corner of the room, turned off the electric lights and hurried swiftly below. The room was left utterly dark except for the winking red glow of cigars and cigarettes. A second volley of crashes came up from the assaulted door. A little, rustling, murmuring panic moved among the besieged guests. Frank, cool, smooth, reassur- ing, could be seen in the rosy glow of the burning tobacco, going from table to table.
"All keep still!" was his caution. "Don't talk or make any noise! Everything will be all right. Now, don't feel the slightest alarm. We'll take care of you all."
Ruby felt across the table until Cork's firm hand closed upon hers. "Are you afraid, Eddie?" she whispered. "Are you afraid you'll get a free ride?"
"Nothin' doin' in the teeth-chatterin' line," said Cork. "I guess Rooney's been slow with his envelope. Don't you worry, girly; I'll look out for you all right."
Yet Mr. McManus's ease was only skin- and muscle-deep. With the po- lice looking everywhere for Buck Malone's assailant, and with Corrigan still on the ocean wave, he felt that to be caught in a police raid would mean an ended career for him. He wished he had remained in the high rear room of the true Capulet reading the pink extras.
Rooney seemed to have opened the front door below and engaged the police in conference in the dark hall. The wordless low growl of their voices came up the stairway. Frank made a wireless news station of him- self at the upper door. Suddenly he closed the door, hurried to the ex- treme rear of the room and lighted a dim gas jet.
"This way, everybody!" he called sharply. "In a hurry; but no noise,
please!"
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The guests crowded in confusion to the rear. Rooney's lieutenant swung open a panel in the wall, overlooking the back yard, revealing a ladder already placed for the escape.
"Down and out, everybody!" he commanded. "Ladies first! Less talk-
ing, please! Don't crowd! There's no danger."
Among the last, Cork and Ruby waited their turn at the open panel.
Suddenly she swept him aside and clung to his arm fiercely.
"Before we go out," she whispered in his ear—"before anything hap-
pens, tell me again, Eddie, do you l—do you really like me?"
"On the dead level," said Cork, holding her close with one arm, "when
it comes to you, I'm all in."
When they turned they found they were lost and in darkness. The last of the fleeing customers had descended. Half way across the yard they bore the ladder, stumbling, giggling, hurrying to place it against an ad- joining low building over the roof of which their only route to safety. "We may as well sit down," said Cork grimly. "Maybe Rooney will
stand the cops off, anyhow."
They sat at a table; and their hands came together again.
A number of men then entered the dark room, feeling their way about. One of them, Rooney himself, found the switch and turned on the elec- tric light. The other man was a cop of the old régime—a big cop, a thick cop, a fuming, abrupt cop—not a pretty cop. He went up to the pair at the table and sneered familiarly at the girl. "What are youse doin' in here?" he asked. "Dropped in for a smoke," said Cork mildly. "Had any drinks?"
"Not later than one o'clock."
"Get out—quick!" ordered the cop. Then, "Sit down!" he
countermanded.
He took off Cork's hat roughly and scrutinized him shrewdly. "Your
name's McManus."
"Bad guess," said Cork. "It's Peterson."
"Cork McManus, or something like that," said the cop. "You put a knife
into a man in Dutch Mike's saloon a week ago."
"Aw, forget it!" said Cork, who perceived a shade of doubt in the officer's tones. "You've got my mug mixed with somebody else's."
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"Have I? Well, you'll come to the station with me, anyhow, and be looked over. The description fits you all right." The cop twisted his fin- gers under Cork's collar. "Come on!" he ordered roughly.
Cork glanced at Ruby. She was pale, and her thin nostrils quivered. Her quick eye danced from one man's face to the other as they spoke or moved. What hard luck! Cork was thinking—Corrigan on the briny; and Ruby met and lost almost within an hour! Somebody at the police station would recognize him, without a doubt. Hard luck!
But suddenly the girl sprang up and hurled herself with both arms ex- tended against the cop. His hold on Cork's collar was loosened and he stumbled back two or three paces.
"Don't go so fast, Maguire!" she cried in shrill fury. "Keep your hands off my man! You know me, and you know I'm givin' you good advice. Don't you touch him again! He's not the guy you are lookin' for—I'll stand for that."
"See here, Fanny," said the Cop, red and angry, "I'll take you, too, if you don't look out! How do you know this ain't the man I want? What are you doing in here with him?"
"How do I know?" said the girl, flaming red and white by turns. "Because I've known him a year. He's mine. Oughtn't I to know? And what am I doin' here with him? That's easy."
She stooped low and reached down somewhere into a swirl of flirted draperies, heliotrope and black. An elastic snapped, she threw on the table toward Cork a folded wad of bills. The money slowly straightened itself with little leisurely jerks.
"Take that, Jimmy, and let's go," said the girl. "I'm declarin' the usual dividends, Maguire," she said to the officer. "You had your usual five- dollar graft at the usual corner at ten."
"A lie!" said the cop, turning purple. "You go on my beat again and I'll
arrest you every time I see you."
"No, you won't," said the girl. "And I'll tell you why. Witnesses saw me give you the money to-night, and last week, too. I've been getting fixed for you."
Cork put the wad of money carefully into his pocket, and said: "Come
on, Fanny; let's have some chop suey before we go home."
"Clear out, quick, both of you, or I'll—"
The cop's bluster trailed away into inconsequentiality.
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At the corner of the street the two halted. Cork handed back the money without a word. The girl took it and slipped it slowly into her hand-bag. Her expression was the same she had worn when she entered Rooney's that night—she looked upon the world with defiance, suspi- cion and sullen wonder.
"I guess I might as well say good-bye here," she said dully. "You won't want to see me again, of course. Will you—shake hands—Mr. McManus."
"I mightn't have got wise if you hadn't give the snap away," said Cork.
"Why did you do it?"
"You'd have been pinched if I hadn't. That's why. Ain't that reason enough?" Then she began to cry. "Honest, Eddie, I was goin' to be the best girl in the world. I hated to be what I am; I hated men; I was ready almost to die when I saw you. And you seemed different from every- body else. And when I found you liked me, too, why, I thought I'd make you believe I was good, and I was goin' to be good. When you asked to come to my house and see me, why, I'd have died rather than do any- thing wrong after that. But what's the use of talking about it? I'll say good-by, if you will, Mr. McManus."
Cork was pulling at his ear. "I knifed Malone," said he. "I was the one
the cop wanted."
"Oh, that's all right," said the girl listlessly. "It didn't make any differ-
ence about that."
"That was all hot air about Wall Street. I don't do nothin' but hang out
with a tough gang on the East Side."
"That was all right, too," repeated the girl. "It didn't make any
difference."
Cork straightened himself, and pulled his hat down low. "I could get a
job at O'Brien's," he said aloud, but to himself.
"Good-by," said the girl.
"Come on," said Cork, taking her arm. "I know a place."
Two blocks away he turned with her up the steps of a red brick house
facing a little park.
"What house is this?" she asked, drawing back. "Why are you going in
there?"
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A street lamp shone brightly in front. There was a brass nameplate at one side of the closed front doors. Cork drew her firmly up the steps. "Read that," said he.
She looked at the name on the plate, and gave a cry between a moan and a scream. "No, no, no, Eddie! Oh, my God, no! I won't let you do that—not now! Let me go! You shan't do that! You can't—you mus'n't! Not after you know! No, no! Come away quick! Oh, my God! Please, Ed- die, come!"
Half fainting, she reeled, and was caught in the bend of his arm. Cork's
right hand felt for the electric button and pressed it long.
Another cop—how quickly they scent trouble when trouble is on the wing!—came along, saw them, and ran up the steps. "Here! What are you doing with that girl?" he called gruffly.
"She'll be all right in a minute," said Cork. "It's a straight deal."
"Reverend Jeremiah Jones," read the cop from the door-plate with true
detective cunning.
"Correct," said Cork. "On the dead level, we're goin' to get married."
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