Billy had possessed himself of the fallen club and struck one

of them a blinding, staggering blow across the eyes. Then

number three pulled his gun and fired point-blank at Billy.

The bullet tore through the mucker's left shoulder. It would

have sent a more highly organized and nervously inclined

man to the pavement; but Billy was neither highly organized

nor nervously inclined, so that about the only immediate

effect it had upon him was to make him mad--before he

had been but peeved--peeved at the rank crust that had

permitted these cheap-skates from south of Twelfth Street

to work his territory.

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.

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