ouble brewing, and
it's only sixty more minutes. You keep on your patrol. We both might
get a call-down for changing."

"Well, begorra, if there's any call-down for a little humanity, I don't
give a rap. You go get some dry clothes. I know Cap. Sawyer won't
mind. You can be back here in five minutes. You've done enough to-day
to deserve a little consideration, me boy. Hustle now!"

Burke was chilled to the marrow and his teeth chattered, even though it
was a Spring rain, and not the icy blasts of the earlier post nights.

"Well, keep a sharp lookout for this crowd around Shultberger's, Mack!"

He yielded, and turned toward the station house with a quick stride.
He had hardly gone half a block before Maguire had reason to remember
the warning. A cry of distress came from the vestibule of
Shultberger's front entrance. The lights of the saloon had been
suddenly extinguished.

"Sure, and that's some monkey business," thought Maguire, as he ran
toward the doorway.

He pounded on the pavement with his night stick, and the resonant sound
stopped Burke's retreat to the station. Officer 4434 wheeled about and
ran for the post he had just left.

Maguire had barely reached the doorway of the saloon when a revolver
shot rang out, and the red tongue licked his face.

"Now we got 'im!" cried a voice.

"Kill the rookie!"

"That's Burke, all right!"

Maguire felt a stinging sensation in his shoulder, and his nightstick
dropped with a thud to the sidewalk. Three figures pounded upon him,
and again the revolver spoke. This time there was no fault in the aim.
A gallant Irish soul passed to its final goal as the weapon barked for
the third time.

Burke's heart was in his mouth; it was no personal fear, but for the
beloved comrade whom he felt sure had stepped into the fate intended
for himself. He drew his revolver as he ran, and swung his stick from
its leathern handle thong resoundingly on the sidewalk as he raced
toward the direction of the scuffle.

A short figure darted out from a doorway as he approached the corner
and deftly stuck a foot forward, tripping the policeman.

"Beat it, fellers!" called this adept, whose voice Burke recognized as
that of Jimmie the Monk. It was a clever campaign which the gangsters
had laid out, but their mistake in picking the man cost them dearly.

As he called, the Monk darted down the street for a quick escape,
feeling confident that his enemy was lying dead in the doo