When Limpy Red, still trembling, left the office of Dodge earlier
in the evening, he had repaired as fast as his shambling feet
would take him to his favorite dive upon Park Row. There he might
have been seen drinking with any one who came along, for Limpy had
money--blood money,--and the recollection of his treachery and
revenge must both be forgotten and celebrated.

Had the Bowery "sinkers" not got into his eyes, he might have
noticed among the late revellers, a man who spoke to no one but
took his place nearby at the bar.

Limpy had long since reached the point of saturation and, lurching
forth from his new found cronies, he sought other fields of
excitement. Likewise did the newcomer, who bore a strange
resemblance to the look-out who had been stationed outside at the
Dodge house a scant half hour before.

What happened later was only a matter of seconds. It came when the
hated snitch--for gangdom hates the informer worse than anything
else dead or alive--had turned a sufficiently dark and deserted
corner.

A muffled thud, a stifled groan followed as a heavy section of
lead pipe wrapped in a newspaper descended on the crass skull of
Limpy. The wielder of the improvised but fatal weapon permitted
himself the luxury of an instant's cruel smile--then vanished into
the darkness leaving another complete job for the coroner and the
morgue.