"You mean it's cold so far as you're concerned," Melcher
judicially amended.

"Sure. She's sore on me, and the whole family."

"Then this is just the time to marry her off. New York is a mighty
lonesome place for a girl like her. Suppose I take a hand."

"All right."

"Will you declare me in?"

"Certainly."

Melcher eyed his associate coldly. "There's no 'certainly' about
it. You'd throw your own mother if you got a chance. But you can't
throw me, understand? You try a cross and--the cold-meat wagon for
yours. I'll have you slabbed at the morgue."

Jimmy's reply left no doubt of the genuineness of his fears, if
not of his intentions. Strange stories were told in the
Tenderloin--tales of treachery punished and ingratitude revenged.
Jimmy knew several young men who appeared out of the East Side at
Melcher's signal. They were inconspicuous fellows, who bore
fanciful dime-novel names--Dago Red, Izzy the Toad, Jew Mike, the
Worm, and the rest--and no rustler's stronghold of the old-time
Western cattle country ever boasted more formidable outlaws than
they. New York is law-ridden, therefore corruption reigns; vice is
capitalized, and in consequence there are men who live not only by