that he rarely carried the weapon, because when he did he was always
tempted too strongly to use it. So that the chances were large that
Donnegan would not have the gun now. Yet if he did have it--if he,
Lefty, did miss his first shot--then the story would be brief and bitter
indeed.

On the other hand, a knife offered advantages almost too numerous to be
listed. It gave one the deadly assurance which only comes with the
knowledge of an edge of steel in one's hand. And when the knife reaches
its mark it ends a battle at a stroke.

Of course these doubts and considerations pro and con went through the
mind of the tramp in about the same space of time that it requires for a
dog to waken, snap at a fly, and drowse again. Eventually, he took out
his knife. It was a sheath knife which he wore from a noose of silk
around his throat, and it always lay closest to his heart. The blade of
the knife was of the finest Spanish steel, in the days when Spanish
smiths knew how to draw out steel to a streak of light; the handle of
the knife was from Milan. On the whole, it was a delicate and beautiful
weapon--and it had the durable suppleness of--say--hatred itself.

Lefty Joe, like a pirate in a tale, took this weapon between his teeth;
allowed his squat, heavy bulk to swing down and dangle at arm's length
for an instant, and then he swung himself a little and landed softly on
the floor of the car.

Who has not heard snow drop from the branch upon other snow beneath?
That was the way Lefty Joe dropped to the floor of the car. He remained
as he had fallen; crouched, alert, with one hand spread out on the
boards to balance him and give him a leverage and a start in case he