There was
the roar of a report, a flash of flame, as Reddy Mull, hand thrust in
through the partially open doorway, fired--a wild scream, as the shot,
meant for him, Jimmie Dale, found another mark directly behind where he
had been standing--and English Dick, reeling to his feet, pitched
forward over the table, carrying the table with him to the floor. It had
taken the time that a watch takes to tick. Came the roar of a report
again, as Jimmie Dale fired in turn--at the electric-light bulb a few
feet away from him on the wall. There was the tinkle of shattering
glass--and darkness. Came shouts, cries, a yell from the door from Reddy
Mull, a fusillade of shots from Reddy Mull's revolver, the rush of many
feet from the pool room--and Jimmie Dale, in the blackness, dropped
silently from the window to the ground.
He gained the street; and, five minutes later, blocks away, he entered
the private stall of a Bowery saloon. Here, Jimmie Dale added another
paper to the contents of the satchel. The characters printed, and badly
formed, the paper looked like this:
WITH THE COMPLIMENTS OF THE
/\
/ \
/ \
/ \
\ /
\ /
\ /
\/
"And I guess," said Jimmie Dale grimly to himself, "that if I slip this
to the police, the police will get--Reddy Mull.
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