his right hand. It's missing, you know; shot off when he was a boy."

"You want to look for a man dressed like a tough," said the city
editor; "for as this fellow is to all appearances a gentleman, he will
try to look as little like a gentleman as possible."

"No, he won't," said Gallegher, with that calm impertinence that made
him dear to us. "He'll dress just like a gentleman. Toughs don't wear
gloves, and you see he's got to wear 'em. The first thing he thought
of after doing for Burrbank was of that gone finger, and how he was to
hide it. He stuffed the finger of that glove with cotton so's to make
it look like a whole finger, and the first time he takes off that
glove they've got him--see, and he knows it. So what youse want to do
is to look for a man with gloves on. I've been a-doing it for two
weeks now, and I can tell you it's hard work, for everybody wears
gloves this kind of weather. But if you look long enough you'll find
him. And when you think it's him, go up to him and hold out your hand
in a friendly way, like a bunco-steerer, and shake his hand; and if
you feel that his forefinger ain't real flesh, but just wadded cotton,
then grip to it with your right and grab his throat with your left,
and holler for help."

There was an appreciative pause.

"I see, gentlemen," said the city editor, dryly, "that Gallegher's
reasoning has impressed you; and I also see that before the week is
out all of my young men will be under bonds for assaulting innocent
pedestrians whose only offence is that they wear gloves in midwinter."

It was about a week after this that Detective Hefflefinger, of