“We’re not to make a pinch, Tim.  That’s the word he gave me before he left.  This is wan av Jerry’s private little wars and he don’t want a judge askin’ a lot of unnicessary questions, y’ understand.”

“Mother av Moses, if this he-man from Hell’s Hinges hadn’t the luck av the Irish, there’d be questions a-plenty asked.  He’d be ready for the morgue this blissed minute.  Jerry’s a murderin’ divvle.  When I breeze in I find him croakin’ this lad proper and he acts like a crazy man when I stand him and Gorilla Dave off till yuh come a-runnin’.  At that they may have given the bye more than he can carry.  Maybe it’ll be roses and a nice black carriage for him yet.”

The other policeman, a sergeant—­by this time the voices had localized themselves in persons—­laughed with reluctant admiration.

“Him!  He’s got siven lives like a cat.  Take a look at the Sea Siren, Tim.  ’T is kindling the lad has made of the place.  The man that runs the dump put up a poor mouth, but I told him and the nuts that crowded round squawkin’ for an arrest that if they hollered the police would close the place and pull the whole bunch for disorderly conduct.  They melted away, believe me.”  He added, with an access of interest, “Yuh’ve heard the byes tell the story of the rube that tied up the Swede janitor on the Drive into a knot with his own hose.  This’ll be the same lad, I’m thinkin’.”

The other nodded.  He was bending over Clay and sprinkling water on his face.  “He’ll be black and blue ivery inch of him, but his eyelids are flickering.  Jerry’s an ill man to cross, I’ve heard tell.  Yuh’d think this lad had had enough.  But Jerry’s still red-eyed about him and swears they can’t both live in the same town.  You’ll remember likely how Durand did for Paddy Kelly?  It was before my time.”

“Yuh’re a chump copper, Tim Muldoon, else yuh’d know we don’t talk about that in the open street.  Jerry has long ears,” the older man warned, lowering his voice.

Clay opened his eyes, flexed his arm muscles, and groaned.  He caressed tenderly his aching ribs.

“Some wreck,” he gasped weakly.  “They didn’t do a thing to me—­outside of beatin’ me up—­and stompin’ on me—­and runnin’ a steam roller—­over the dear departed.”

“Whose fault will that be?  Don’t yuh know better than to start a fight with a rigiment?” demanded the sergeant of police severely.

“That wasn’t a fight.  It was a waltz.”  The faint, unconquered smile of brown Arizona, broke through the blood and bruises of the face.  “The fight began when Jerry Durand and his friend rushed me—­and it ended when Jerry landed on me with brass knucks.  After that I was a football.”  The words came in gasps.  Every breath was drawn in pain.

“We’d ought to pinch yuh,” the sergeant said by way of reprimand.  “Think yuh can come to New York and pull your small-town stuff on us?  We’ll show youse.  If yuh wasn’t alfalfa green I’d give yuh a ride.”