When I think back to that evening’s work, the Tombs and our convict prisons and all the bitter horror of our penal system, is no longer inexplicable. It is only crystallized anger. The electric chair is only a formal symbol of collective hate. I am not at all proud of that man-hunt. A friend of mine had been hurt. "A friend of mine"—how many of man’s and nature’s laws have been broken with that preface! The political bosses look after their "friends." More corrupt legislation has been passed because of "friendship" than for bribes. Well. A friend of mine had been touched. Everything by which I like to recognize myself as a civilized man dropped away. Suddenly I became an ally of the thing I was fighting against. As I rushed downstairs, with handcuffs in one pocket and a revolver in the other and murder in my heart, I was just adding my contribution to the maintenance of the system which seems to me—when not angry—the most despicable element in our civilization. I left word for Benson to stay in when he came home, so that I could reach him by telephone. I had no definite plan when I left the Teepee—only somehow I was going to "get" Blackie. It was about an hour before I was able to locate him. The first fury of my anger had passed, it had had time to become cold and to harden. Pinning my badge on the outside of my coat, I kicked open the door of the "Tim O’Healy Social and Civic Club," and covered the crowd of twenty young toughs who were in the room. "Hands up," I ordered. They obeyed sullenly. "I want Blackie," I said, "and no funny work from the rest of you." For a moment they were irresolute. "Say. You’re making a damn fool of yourself," one of them protested, "Blackie’s president of this club—he’s right next to the Old Man. You’ll get broke sure." "Shut up. The Old Man sent me," I lied. "Blackie’s been getting too fly." "Hell!" another piped up. "I seen the Old Man shake hands wid him an hour ago." "Cut it out, kid," I replied. "You talk too much. How long’s the Old Man been in the habit of warning guys he’s going to light on?" My lie worked—and saved bloodshed. It was the old tragedy of Cardinal Wolsey acted over again. None of the gang was really afraid of my revolver. One rush would have finished me. But they were all afraid of the Old Man’s ire. They drew away from Blackie. "It’s a lie," he growled. "Me and the Old Man’s friends." "You can talk that over with him in the morning. Come on." He grew suddenly pale, half believing my story. He was such an ill-visaged, rat-eyed scoundrel, I regretted that they had not made a rush—at least I could have stopped his career. Single handed now, he submitted sullenly. "Wot’s the charge?" he asked, holding out his hands for the irons. "Murder in the first." From the way he wilted, I think he must have had a murder on his conscience.