Of course he had to “give up” at intervals, depending on what administration was in power, who his immediate superior was, and what precinct he was attached to, but he was not a regular grafter by any means.  He was an occasional one merely; when he had to be.  He did not consider that he was being grafted on when expected to contribute to chowders, picnics, benevolent associations, defense funds or wedding presents for high police officials.  Neither did he think that he was taking graft because he amicably permitted Froelich to leave a fourteen-pound rib roast every Saturday night at his brother-in-law’s flat.  In the same way he regarded the bills slipped him by Grabinsky, the bondsman, as well-earned commissions, and saw no reason why the civilian clothes he ordered at the store shouldn’t be paid for by some mysterious friendly person—­identity unknown—­but shrewdly suspected to be Mr. Joseph Simpkins, Mr. Hogan’s runner.  Weren’t there to be any cakes and ale in New York simply because a highbrow happened to be mayor?  Were human kindness, good nature and generosity all dead?  Would he have taken a ten-dollar bill—­or even a hundred-dollar one—­from Simpkins when he was going to be a witness in one of Hogan’s cases?  Not on your life!  He wasn’t no crook, he wasn’t!  He didn’t have to be.  He was just a cog in an immense wheel of crookedness.  When the wheel came down on his cog he automatically did his part.

I perceive that the police are engaging too much of our attention.  But it is necessary to explain why Delany was so ready to arrest Tony Mathusek, and why as he dragged him into the station house he beckoned to Mr. Joey Simpkins, who was loitering outside in front of the deputy sheriff’s office, and whispered behind his hand, “All right.  I’ve got one for you!”

Then the machine began to work as automatically as a cash register.  Tony was arraigned at the bar, and, having given his age as sixteen years and five days, charged with the “malicious destruction of property, to wit, a plate-glass window of one Karl Froelich, of the value of one hundred and fifty dollars.”  Mr. Joey Simpkins had shouldered his way through the smelly push and taken his stand beside the bewildered and half-fainting boy.

“It’s all right, kid.  Leave it to me,” he said, encircling him with a protecting arm.  Then to the clerk:  “Pleads not guilty.”

The magistrate glanced over the complaint, in which Delany, to save Froelich trouble, had sworn that he had seen Tony throw the brick.  Hadn’t the butcher said he’d seen him?  Besides, that let the Dutchman out of a possible suit for false arrest.  Then the magistrate looked down at the cop himself.

“Do you know this boy?” he asked sharply.

“Sure, Yerroner.  He’s a gangster.  Admitted it to me on the way over.”

“Are you really over sixteen?” suddenly demanded the judge, who knew and distrusted Delany, having repeatedly stated in open court that he wouldn’t hang a yellow dog on his testimony.  The underfed, undersized boy did not look more than fourteen.