"Nuthin' much," said Jimmie Dale. "Only I t'ought I'd let youse know.
I was passin' Moriarty's an' got de tip. Say, some guy's croaked Jake
Metzer dere."

"Aw, ferget it!" observed the Runt airily. "Dat's stale. Was wise to dat
hours ago."

Jimmie Dale's face fell. "But I just come from dere," he insisted; "an'
de harness bulls only just found it out."

"Mabbe," grunted the Runt. "But Metzer got his early in de
afternoon--see?"

Jimmie Dale looked quickly around him--and then leaned toward the Runt.

"Wot's de lay, Runt?" he whispered.

The Runt pulled down one eyelid, and, with his knowing grin, the
cigarette, clinging to his upper lip, sagged down in the opposite corner
of his mouth.

Jimmie Dale grinned, too--in a flash inspiration had come to Jimmie
Dale.

"Say, Runt"--he jerked his head toward the street door--"wot's de fly
cops doin' out dere?"

The grin vanished from the Runt's lips. He stared for a second wildly at
Jimmie Dale, and then clutched at Jimmie Dale's arm.