catlike tread acquired by many pugilists.

The floor of the vestibule had been raised and the outer door of the
car opened. Durand found time to wonder why.

The cowpuncher turned on him with an abrupt question. "Can you swim?"

The eyes of the ward boss narrowed. "What's that to you?" he demanded
truculently.

"Nothin' to me, but a good deal to you. I'm aimin' to drop you in the
river when we cross."

"Is that so?" snarled Durand. "You're quite a joker, ain't you? Well,
you can't start somethin' too soon to suit me. But let's get this
clear so we'll know where we're at. What's ailin' you, rube?"

"I don't like the color of yore hair or the cut of yore clothes,"
drawled Lindsay. "You've got a sure-enough bad eye, and I'm tired of
travelin' in yore company. Let's get off, me or you one."

In the slitted eyes of the Bowery graduate there was no heat at all.
They were bleak as a heavy winter morn. "Suits me fine. You'll not
travel with me much farther. Here's where you beat the place."

The professional lashed out suddenly with his left. But Clay was not
at the receiving end of the blow. Always quick as chain lightning, he
had ducked and clinched. His steel-muscled arms tightened about the
waist of the other. A short-arm jolt to the cheek he disregarded.