ed.

"I know what I'm talkin' about and don't you forget it," Murphy said.
"Just do what I tell ya, will ya?"

"All right," he agreed.

The truck turned to the left at First and Spring streets and struggled
up the grade at First west of Broadway, backing into the curb in front
of the central police station. By the time they were leaving the truck
John had decided to "go through with it," as Murphy had suggested. It
would be an adventure, at least, and Murphy's repeated assertions that
it was "a phoney" invited investigation. He knew that a word to Kenyon,
the police reporter for his paper, would get him out of his trouble, but
he concluded he had nothing to lose and perhaps something to gain by
following Murphy's whispered instructions.

Herded into an alley-way leading back to the desk sergeant's room were,
John estimated, more than 150 other men and boys, arrested like himself
and evidently brought to headquarters in other trucks. In this crowd he
learned that every place along Spring street where it was suspected that
a handbook on the races at Tia Juana was being operated had been raided
simultaneously by squads of deputy sheriffs detailed to the command of
Police Commissioner Gibson by the sheriff. Over the heads of the crowd
he caught a glimpse of Gibson himself surrounded by Kenyon and the other
police reporters. He saw Gibson pose for a photograph with the crowd of
men he had arrested as a background. Once, he thought, he had a glimpse
of Brennan in conversation with Police Chief Sweeney.

"Have ya got ten bucks on ya?" asked Murphy.

"Why?" he asked.

"Dat's da bail," explained Murphy.

"I've got it," he said. "Have you yours?"

"Murphy's always got his bail money wid him," the twisted nose youth
grinned. "Remember, now, stick wid me."

"Right-o," said John.

"Gwan!" Murphy made the word the acme of disgust. "If I hadn't seen ya
mix it wid de Battler I'd bust ya for dat," he said. Evidently "right-o"
was not a word calculated to win in Twisted Nose's vocabulary.

Slowly, like a line of theatergoers approaching the box office, the
crowd worked its way toward the desk sergeant's counter, where two
police officers were booking the prisoners, receiving $10 in bail from
each and handing them a receipt for the money. Murphy and John finally
reached the counter.

"Murphy--Tim Murphy," said John's companion, stepping up to the desk and
speaking before the desk sergeant asked him his name, as if it was a