“Say, wot t’ell’s this stuff you’re pipin’?  Who d’ you t’ink youse are?”

“Never mind who I am.  You’ll keep away from Annie from now on—­absolutely.  If you bother her—­if anything happens to her—­well, you go and take a good long look at Durand before you make any mistakes.”

“You touch me an’ I’ll croak you.  See!” hissed Collins.  “It won’t be rough-house stuff with me.  I’ll fix youse so the gospel sharks’ll sing gather-at-the-river for you.”

“A gun-play?” asked Clay pleasantly.  “Say, there’s a shootin’-gallery round the corner.  Come along.  I wantta show you somethin’.”

“Aw, go to hell!”

The sinewy hand moved again toward the aching muscles of the gunman.  Collins changed his mind hurriedly.

“All right.  I’ll come,” he growled.

Clay tossed a dollar down on the counter, took a .32, and aimed at the row of ducks sailing across the gallery pool.  Each duck went down as it appeared.  He picked up a second rifle and knocked over seven or eight mice as they scampered across the target screen.  With a third gun he snuffed the flaming eye from the right to the left side of the face that grinned at him, then with another shot sent it back again.  He smashed a few clay pipes by way of variety.  To finish off with he scored six center shots in a target and rang a bell each time.  Not one single bullet had failed to reach its mark.

The New York gunman had never seen such speed and accuracy.  He was impressed in spite of the insolent sneer that still curled his lip.

“Got a six-shooter—­a fohty-five?” asked Clay of the owner of the gallery.

“No.”

“Sorry.  I’m not much with a rifle, but I’m a good average shot with a six-gun.  I kinda take to it natural.”

They turned and walked back to the cab.  Collins fell into the Bowery strut.

“Tryin’ to throw a scare into me,” he argued feebly.

“Me?  Oh, no.  You mentioned soft music and the preacher.  Mebbeso.  But it’s liable to be for you if you monkey with the buzz-saw.  I’m no gun-sharp, but no man who can’t empty a revolver in a shade better than two seconds and put every bullet inside the rim of a cup at fifteen yards wants to throw lead at me.  You see, I hang up my hat in Arizona.  I grew up with a six-gun by my side.”

“I should worry.  This is little old New York, not Arizona,” the gangman answered.

“That’s what yore boss Durand thought.  What has it brought him but trouble?  Lemme give you something to chew on.  New York’s the biggest city of the biggest, freest country on God’s green footstool.  You little sewer rats pull wires and think you run it.  Get wise, you poor locoed gink.  You run it about as much as that fly on the wheel of yore taxi drives the engine.  Durand’s the whole works by his way of it, but when some one calls his bluff see where he gets off.”

“He ain’t through with you yet,” growled “Slim” Jim sulkily.