and."

"Mother av Moses, if this he-man from Hell's Hinges hadn't the luck av
the Irish, there'd be questions a-plenty asked. He'd be ready for the
morgue this blissed minute. Jerry's a murderin' divvle. When I breeze
in I find him croakin' this lad proper and he acts like a crazy man
when I stand him and Gorilla Dave off till yuh come a-runnin'. At that
they may have given the bye more than he can carry. Maybe it'll be
roses and a nice black carriage for him yet."

The other policeman, a sergeant--by this time the voices had localized
themselves in persons--laughed with reluctant admiration.

"Him! He's got siven lives like a cat. Take a look at the Sea Siren,
Tim. 'T is kindling the lad has made of the place. The man that runs
the dump put up a poor mouth, but I told him and the nuts that crowded
round squawkin' for an arrest that if they hollered the police would
close the place and pull the whole bunch for disorderly conduct. They
melted away, believe me." He added, with an access of interest,
"Yuh've heard the byes tell the story of the rube that tied up the
Swede janitor on the Drive into a knot with his own hose. This'll be
the same lad, I'm thinkin'."

The other nodded. He was bending over Clay and sprinkling water on his
face. "He'll be black and blue ivery inch of him, but his eyelids are
flickering. Jerry's an ill man to cross, I've heard tell. Yuh'd think
this lad had had enough. But Jerry's still red-eyed about him and
swears they can't both live in the same town. You'll remember likely
how Durand did for Paddy Kelly? It was before my time."

"Yuh're a chump copper, Tim Muldoon, else yuh'd know we don't talk
about that in the open street. Jerry has long ears," the older man
warned, lowering his voice.

Clay opened his eyes, flexed his arm muscles, and groaned. He caressed
tenderly his aching ribs.

"Some wreck," he gasped weakly. "They didn't do a thing to me--outside
of beatin' me up--and stompin' on me--and runnin' a steam roller--over
the dear departed."

"Whose fault will that be? Don't yuh know better than to start a fight
with a rigiment?" demanded the sergeant of police severely.

"That wasn't a fight. It was a waltz." The faint, unconquered smile
of brown Arizona, broke through the blood and bruises of the face.
"The fight began when Jerry Durand and his friend rushed me--and it
ended when Jerry landed on me with brass knucks. After that I was a
football." The w