Larry had turned away from the dark river and had started to retrace his way, when he saw a man approaching through the darkness.  Larry paused.  The man drew near and halted exactly in front of Larry.  By the swing of his body Larry had recognized the man, and his own figure instinctively grew tense.

“What you doin’ out here, Brainard?” The voice was peremptory and rough.

“Throwing kisses over at Brooklyn,” Larry replied coolly.  “And what are you doing out here, Gavegan?”

“Following you.  I wanted a quiet word with you.  I’ve been right behind you ever since you hit New York.”

“I knew you would be.  You and Casey.  But you haven’t got anything on me.”

“I got plenty on you before!—­with Casey helping,” retorted Gavegan.  “And I’ll get plenty on you again!—­now that I know you are the main guy of a clever outfit.  You’ll be starting some smooth game—­but I’m going to be right after you every minute.  And I’ll get you.  That’s the news I wanted to slip you.”

“So!” commented Larry drawlingly.  “Casey’s a fairly decent guy, considering his line—­but, Gavegan, I don’t see how Casey stands you as a partner.  And, Gavegan, I don’t see why the Board of Health lets you stay around the streets—­when putrefying matter causes so much disease.”

“None of your lip, young feller!” growled Gavegan.  He stepped closer, bulking over Larry.  “You think you are such a damned smart talker and such a damned clever schemer—­but I’ll bet I’ll have you locked up in six months.”

Anger boiled up within Larry.  Against all the persons connected with his arrest, trial, and imprisonment, he had no particular resentment, except against this one man.  He never could forget the time he and Gavegan, he handcuffed, had been locked in a sound-proof cell, and Gavegan had given him the third degree—­in this case a length of heavy rubber hose, applied with a powerful arm upon head and shoulders—­in an effort to make him squeal upon his confederates.  And that third degree was merely a sample of the material of which Gavegan was made.

Larry held his desire in leash.  “So you bet you’ll get me.  I’ll take that bet—­any figure you like.  I’ve already got a new game cooked up, Gavegan.  Cleverer than anything I’ve ever tried before.”

“Oh, I’ll get you!” Gavegan growled again.

“Oh, no, you won’t!” And then Larry’s old anger against Gavegan got into his tongue and made it wag tauntingly.  “You didn’t get me the last time; that was a slip and police stools got me.  All by yourself, Gavegan, you couldn’t get anything.  Your brain’s got flat tires, and its motor doesn’t fire, and its clutch is broken.  The only thing about it that still works is the horn.  You’ve got a hell of a horn, Gavegan, and it never stops blowing.”

A tug was nearing the dock, and by its light Larry saw the terrific swing that the enraged detective started.  Larry swayed slightly aside, and as Gavegan lunged by, Larry’s right fist drove into Gavegan’s chin—­drove with all the power of his dislike and all the strength of five years in a Y.M.C.A. gymnasium and a year in a prison boiler-room.