Mr. Asche was not a party to be trifled with.  He was a rectangular person whom nothing could budge, and his very rectangularity bespoke his stubborn rectitude.  His shoulders were massive and square, his chin and mouth were square, his burnsides were square cut, and he had a square head and wore a square-topped derby.  He looked like the family portrait of Uncle Amos Hardscrabble.  When he sat down he remained until he had said his say.  It was a misfortunate meeting for Delany, for Asche nailed him upon the spot and made him repeat to Caput Magnus the story of how he had seen Tony throw the brick and then, for some fool reason, not being satisfied to let it go at that, he insisted on calling in a stenographer and having Delany swear to the yarn in affidavit form!  This entirely spoiled any chance the policeman might otherwise have had of changing his testimony.  He now had no choice but to go on and swear the case through before the grand jury—­which he did.

Even so, that distinguished body of twenty-three representative citizens was not disposed to take the matter very seriously.  Having heard what Delany had to say—­and he made it good and strong under the circumstances—­several of them remarked disgustedly that they did not understand why the district attorney saw fit to waste their valuable time with trivial cases of that sort.  Boys would play ball and boys would throw balls round; if not balls, then stones.  They were about to dismiss by an almost unanimous vote, when the case went bad again.  The foreman, a distinguished person in braided broadcloth, rose and announced that he was very much interested to learn their views upon this subject as he was the president of a casualty company, and he wished them to understand that thousands—­if not hundreds of thousands—­of dollars’ worth of plate-glass windows were wantonly broken by young toughs, every year, for which his and other insurance companies had to recoup the owners.  In fact, he alleged heatedly, window breaking was a sign of peculiar viciousness.  Incipient criminals usually started their infamous careers that way; you could read that in any book on penology.  An example ought to be made.  He’d bet this feller who threw the brick was a gangster.

So his twenty-two fellow grand jurymen politely permitted him to recall Officer Delany and ask him:  “Say, officer, isn’t it a fact—­just tell us frankly now—­if this feller Mathusek isn’t a gangster?”

“Sure, he’s a gangster.  He was blowin’ about it to me after I arrested him,” swore Delany without hesitation.

The foreman swept the circle with a triumphant eye.

“What’d I tell you?” he demanded.  “All in favor of indicting said Tony Mathusek for malicious destruction of property signify in the usual manner.  Cont’riminded?  It’s a vote.  Ring the bell, Simmons, and bring on the next case.”

So Tony was indicted by the People of the State of New York for a felony, and a learned judge of the General Sessions set his bail at fifteen hundred dollars; and Hogan had his victim where he wanted him and where he could keep him until he had bled his mother white of all she had or might ever hope to have in this world.