s coming to inspect the scene of the brutal attack. It might be
Brennan.

The door swung open and three men entered the room quickly. John
recognized one of them as "Slim" Gray.

He knew he was face to face with the men who had "got" Murphy.

CHAPTER XXII

In the fraction of the second that he stood facing "Slim" Gray and the
two bruisers, tense and glaring, the cool self-possession he had
acquired in his training as a boxer overcame his mental confusion. With
one quick glance he saw the cold hate gleaming in "Slim's" eyes as he
stood with his back flat against the door and noticed that one of the
"bashers" wore brass knuckles on his right fist, while the other had
pulled a black-jack from his pocket.

The iron bedstead was between him and the two thugs. As one of them
started forward John stooped and grasped the empty whisky bottle on the
floor at his feet. From his crouching position he leaped toward the
window, his only avenue of escape. Louie--it was he who was armed with
the black-jack--jumped at him with a curse, his skull-crashing weapon
held back to strike a blow. Coolly, with the mental rapidity he had
developed as a boxer, John darted toward the bruiser and back. Tricked
by the feint, Louie lurched forward with a sweeping blow of the
black-jack. The momentum of the swing of his arm drew his head down and
with a quick slashing movement, like a pugilist chopping with his fist,
John crashed the bottle against Louie's temple.

The bottle shattered and Louie, blood gushing from the wound, crumpled
at his feet, John tossed away the neck of the bottle and barely had time
to side-step the onrush of the other thug, who struck viciously at him
with the fist armored with the knuckles. As they drew back John was in
the position of a boxer, standing lightly on his toes, his left hand
extended with the shoulder drawn up to protect his chin, which rested
against his collarbone, his right arm crooked back. The bed was between
him and the door, where "Slim" stood.

The "basher" swung up from the hip with his right arm, aiming for John's
face. A man who "leads," or strikes first, with his right hand, is a
target for a trained fighter. Warding off the blow by lifting his left
arm so that it caught the descending fist on the tightened muscles below
his elbow, John stepped in with a swift right-cross to his opponent's
chin. A sharp pain shot through his clenched fist and he knew he had
smashed a knuckle as it crash