e to him some premonition of the
future, some half-revealed, half-blurred picture of prophecy. Perhaps
that picture was one of himself, lying in the darkness on the roof of
the railway carriage, and an obscene Boolba standing erect in a
motor-car on the darkened station, waving his rage, ere the three quick
shots rang out.

Cherry Bim confessed afterwards to a curious shivery sensation at his
spine. The hesitation was only for a second, and then his hand gripped
the big hand of the self-constituted chairman.

"Now, gents and ladies," he said, with a comical little bow towards
Sophia, "I understand you're all good sports here, and I'm telling you
that I don't want to stay long. I'm down and out, and I'm free to
confess it, and any of you ladies and gents who would like to grubstake
a stranger in a foreign land, why, here's your chance. I'm open to take
on any kind of job that doesn't bring me into conspicuous relationship
with the bulls--bulls, ladies and gentlemen, being New York for
policemen."

Then Boolba spoke, and he spoke in English, slow but correct.

"Comrade," he said, "do you hate tyrants?"

"If he's a copper," replied Mr. Bim mistakenly. "Why, he's just as
popular with me as a hollow tooth at an ice-cream party."

"What does he say?" asked the bewildered Boolba, who could not follow
the easy flow of Mr. Bim's conversation, and Yakoff translated to the
best of his ability.

And then Boolba, arresting the interruption of the American, explained.
It was a long explanation. It dealt with tyranny and oppression and
other blessed words dear to the heart of the revolutionary; it concerned
millions of men and hundreds of millions of men and women in chains,
under iron heels, and the like; and Mr. Bim grew more and more hazy, for
he was not used to the parabole, the allegory, or the metaphor. But
towards the end of his address, Boolba became more explicit, and, as his
emotions were moved, his English a little more broken.

Mr. Bim became grave, for there was no mistaking the task which had been
set him.

"Hold hard, mister," he said. "Let's get this thing right. There's a guy
you want to croak. Do I get you right?"

Again Mr. Yakoff translated the idioms, for Yakoff had not lived on the
edge of New York's underworld without acquiring some knowledge of its
language.

Boolba nodded.

"We desire him killed," he said. "He is a tyrant, an oppressor----"

"Hold hard," said Bim. "I want to see this thing pla