Thoroughly aroused, Billy was a wonder. From a long
line of burly ancestors he had inherited the physique of a
prize bull. From earliest childhood he had fought, always
unfairly, so that he knew all the tricks of street fighting.
During the past year there had been added to Billy's natural
fighting ability and instinct a knowledge of the scientific end
of the sport. The result was something appalling--to the
gink from Twelfth Street.

Before he knew whether his shot had killed Billy his gun
had been wrenched from his hand and flung across the street;
he was down on the granite with a hand as hard as the paving
block scrambling his facial attractions beyond hope of
recall.

By this time Patrolman Lasky had staggered to his feet,
and most opportunely at that, for the man whom Billy had
dazed with the club was recovering. Lasky promptly put
him to sleep with the butt of the gun that he had been unable
to draw when first attacked, then he turned to assist Billy.
But it was not Billy who needed assistance--it was the
gentleman from Bohemia. With difficulty Lasky dragged
Billy from his prey.

"Leave enough of him for the inquest," pleaded Lasky.

When the wagon arrived Billy had disappeared, but
Lasky had recognized him and thereafter the two had nodded
pleasantly to each other upon such occasions as they chanced