With the peaceful smile of a child, therefore, Lefty Joe lay stretched at full length along the top of the car and made his choice of weapons.  On the whole, his usual preference, day or night, was for a revolver.  Give him a gat and Lefty was at home in any company.  But he had reasons for transferring his alliance on this occasion.  In the first place, a box car which is reeling and pitching to and fro, from side to side, is not a very good shooting platform—­even for a snapshot like Lefty Joe.  Also, the pitch darkness in the car would be a further annoyance to good aim.  And in the third and most decisive place, if he were to miss his first shot he would not be extremely apt to place his second bullet.  For Donnegan had a reputation with his own revolver.  Indeed, it was said that he rarely carried the weapon, because when he did he was always tempted too strongly to use it.  So that the chances were large that Donnegan would not have the gun now.  Yet if he did have it—­if he, Lefty, did miss his first shot—­then the story would be brief and bitter indeed.

On the other hand, a knife offered advantages almost too numerous to be listed.  It gave one the deadly assurance which only comes with the knowledge of an edge of steel in one’s hand.  And when the knife reaches its mark it ends a battle at a stroke.

Of course these doubts and considerations pro and con went through the mind of the tramp in about the same space of time that it requires for a dog to waken, snap at a fly, and drowse again.  Eventually, he took out his knife.  It was a sheath knife which he wore from a noose of silk around his throat, and it always lay closest to his heart.  The blade of the knife was of the finest Spanish steel, in the days when Spanish smiths knew how to draw out steel to a streak of light; the handle of the knife was from Milan.  On the whole, it was a delicate and beautiful weapon—­and it had the durable suppleness of—­say—­hatred itself.

Lefty Joe, like a pirate in a tale, took this weapon between his teeth; allowed his squat, heavy bulk to swing down and dangle at arm’s length for an instant, and then he swung himself a little and landed softly on the floor of the car.

Who has not heard snow drop from the branch upon other snow beneath?  That was the way Lefty Joe dropped to the floor of the car.  He remained as he had fallen; crouched, alert, with one hand spread out on the boards to balance him and give him a leverage and a start in case he should wish to spring in any direction.

Then he began to probe the darkness in every direction; with every glance he allowed his head to dart out a little.  The movement was like a chicken pecking at imaginary grains of corn.  But eventually he satisfied himself that his quarry lay in the forward end of the car; that he was prone; that he, Lefty, had accomplished nine-tenths of his purpose by entering the place of his enemy unobserved.

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