"Heard de news?"
Jimmie Dale, with the top of his tongue, shifted the half burnt section
of the cigarette that was hanging from his upper lip to the opposite
corner of his mouth, as he looked at the other. It was the Wowzer, dip
and pick-pocket, the erstwhile pal of one Dago Jim, who, on a certain
night, also of the very long ago, that Jimmie Dale had very good cause
to remember, had killed Dago Jim in a certain infamous dive. Well, if
he, Jimmie Dale, was, after all, to learn the cause of the excitement
that seemed suddenly to have possessed the underworld, he could at least
have asked for no better or more thoroughly posted informant than the
Wowzer. And now his curiosity was aroused. For an instant the idea that
it might be Melinoff's murder flashed across his mind; but he dismissed
that idea at once. Murder was too trite a thing in the underworld to
cause any widespread commotion!
"Hello, Wowzer!" he returned, as he shook his head. "No, I ain't heard
anything."
"Youse can take it from me den," said the Wowzer, "dat dere's something
doin'! Dey got her!"
"Got who?" enquired Jimmie Dale in a puzzled way.
The Wowzer leaned forward secretively.
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