Tommy O'Connor yawned. Not much sleep the night before. Well, he'd sleep
tonight. Worrying wasn't going to help matters. What if they did come? Let
them come. Fill up the street and begin their damn shooting. They didn't
think Lucky Tommy was sucker enough to let them march him up on a scaffold
and break his neck on the end of a rope. Fat chance. Not him. That sort of
stuff happened to other guys, not to Lucky Tommy.

Snowing outside. And quiet. Everybody at work. Funny about that. Tommy
O'Connor was the only free man in the city. There was nobody felt like him
right now--nobody. Where would he be exactly this time a week from now? If
he could only look ahead and see himself at four o'clock next Monday
afternoon. But he was free now. No breaking his neck on the end of a rope.
If worst came to worst--if worst came to worst--O'Connor's fingers took a
grip on the gun in his pocket. They were hunting him. Up and down the
streets everywhere. Racing around in taxis, with rifles sticking out of
the windows. Well, why didn't they come into this street? All they had to
do was figure out: Here's the street Tommy O'Connor is hiding in. And that
looks like the house. And then somebody would yell out: "There he is!
Behind that window! That's him!" Why didn't this happen?

* * * * *

Christmas, maybe, he'd call on the folks. No. Rube stuff. A million
coppers would be watching the house. But he might drop them a letter. Too
bad he didn't have any paper, or he might write a lot of letters. To the
chief of police and all the head hunters. Some more rube stuff, that. They
could tell by the postmark what part of the city he was hiding in and
they'd be on him with a whoop.