rway on the
corner. Burke forgot the orders of the Mayor against the use of
fire-arms; his mind inadvertently swung into the fighting mood of the
old days in the Philippines, when native devils were dealt justice as
befitted their own methods.

He had fallen heavily on the wet pavement, and slid. But, at the
recognition of that evil voice, he rolled over, and half lying on the
pavement he leveled his revolver at the fleeting figure of the gang
leader.

Bang! One shot did the work, and Jimmie the Monk crumpled forward,
with a leg which was never again to lead in another Bowery "spiel" or
club prize fight.

"He's fixed," thought Burke, and he sprang up, to run forward to the
vestibule of Shultberger's. There he found the body of Maguire
sprawled out, with the blood of the Irish kings mingling with the
rainwater on the East Side street.

One man was hiding in the doorway's shelter. Another was scuttling
down the street, to run full into the arms of an approaching roundsman.

As Burke stooped over the form of his comrade a black-jack struck his
shoulder. He sprang upward, partially numbed from the blow, but
summoning all his strength he caught the gangster by the arm and
shoulder and flung him bodily through the glass door which smashed with
a clatter.

Burke kicked at the door as he fought with the murderer, and his weight
forced it open.

A whisky bottle whizzed through the air from behind the bar.
Shultberger was in the battle. Burke's night stick ended the struggle
with his one assailant, and he ran for the long bar, which he vaulted,
as the saloon-keeper dodged backward. Another revolver shot
reverberated as the proprietor retreated. But, at this rough and
tumble fight, Burke used the greatest fighting projectile of the
policeman; he threw the loaded night stick with unerring aim, striking
Shultberger full in the face. The man screamed as he fell backward.

Half a dozen policemen had surrounded the saloon by this time, and
Burke fumbled around until he found the electric light switch near the
cash register. He threw a flood of light on the scene of destruction.

Shultberger, pulling himself up to his knees, his face and mouth gory
from the catapult's stroke, moaned with agony as he clawed blindly.
Patrolman White was tugging at the gangster who had been knocked
unconscious by Burke's club. Outside two of the uniformed men were
reverently lifting the corpse of Terence Maguire, who was on his
Ete