Oaths, voicing a passion that rocked the Flopper to his soul, purled in a torrid stream from his lips, and for a moment made him forget the proximity of the brass buttons.  He raised his fist, that still clenched some of the money, and shook it after the other—­and his fist, uplifted in midair, was caught in a vicious grip—­the harness bull was standing over him.

“Beat it!” rasped the officer roughly, “or I’ll—­hullo, what you got here?  Open your hand!”—­he gave a sharp twist as he spoke, the Flopper’s fingers uncurled, and the money dropped into the policeman’s other hand—­held conveniently below the Flopper’s.

“It’s mine—­gimme it back,” whined the Flopper.

“Yours!  Yours, is it!” growled the officer.  “Where’d you get it?  Stole it, eh?  Go on, now, beat it—­or I’ll run you in!  Beat it!”

With twitching fingers, the Flopper picked up his cap, placed it on his head and sidled away.  Ten yards along, in the shadow of the buildings again, he looked back—­the officer was still standing there, twirling his stick, one hand just emerging from his pocket.  The Flopper’s finger nails scratched along the stone pavement and curved into the palm of his hand until the skin under the knuckles was bloodless white, and his lips moved in ugly, whispered words—­then, still whispering, he went on again.

Down the Bowery he went like a human toad, keeping in the shadows, keeping his eyes on the ground before him, a glint like a shudder in their depths—­on he went with hopping, lurching jerks, with whispering lips.  Street after street he passed, and then at a corner he turned and went East—­not far, only to the side entrance of the saloon on the corner known, to those who knew, as the “Roost.”

The door before which he stopped, on a level with the street, might readily have passed for the entrance to one of the adjoining tenements, for it was innocent to all appearances of any connection with the unlovely resort of which it was a part—­and it was closed.

The Flopper rang no bell.  After a quick glance around him to assure himself that he was not observed, he reached up for the doorknob, turned it, and with surprising agility hopped oven the threshold and closed the door behind him.

A staircase, making one side of a narrow and dimly lighted hall, from down whose length came muffled sounds from the barroom, was before him; and this, without hesitation, the Flopper began to mount, his knee thumping from step to step, his dangling leg echoing the sound in a peculiar; quick double thump.  He reached the first landing, went along it, and started up the second flight—­but now the thumping sound he made seemed accentuated intentionally, and upon his face there spread a grin of malicious humor.

He halted before the door opposite the head of the second flight of stairs, opened it, wriggled inside and shut it behind him.

“Hullo, Helena!” he snickered.  “Pipe me comin’?”