"Now," I said to the gang, "I don’t need any help from you. You’d better go right on with your game. You can call on him later on in the station house and bail him out—if you want to get in wrong with the Old Man." But instead of taking him to the nearby station house, I rushed him down town to the Tombs. The sergeant at the desk did not know him, so I entered him under a false name. A search revealed quite an arsenal on his person, a short barreled revolver, a knife and some brass-knuckles. I plastered him with all the charges I could think of—disorderly conduct, concealed weapons, robbery in the first degree, felonious assault. Nina might be too frightened to testify to the robbery, but Guiseppe would swear to the assault. As soon as I had him in a cell, I telephoned to Norman that all was going well and rushed uptown to the home of the district attorney. The fates were playing into my hands, for at that time—as is usual between elections—there was civil war within the organization. The district attorney was a machine man, but was one of the leaders of the rebellious faction. He heard my story with great glee, a serious criminal charge against one of the Old Man’s lieutenants was fine gist for his mill. He promised to push the case and put it on before O’Neil, whom the Old Man could not reach. Then I went to the "Old Man." I have already written of my encounters with him. In general I had established friendly relations with the machine politicians. Some of them, especially the judges, liked me personally. Ryan’s friendship for me was, I think, real. But of what was back of the Old Man’s easy going familiarity, I was less certain. I could not count on his friendship. But he was sure to find out what I had done. And there was nothing to be gained by letting some one else tell him. That night I found him in the back room of his brother-in-law’s saloon. He looked up at me, his eyes, usually cordial, decidedly hostile. "Say, young man, haven’t you been getting pretty gay?" "I sure have," I admitted. "And I’ve come round to tell you what I did and why I did it." I gave him the story from beginning to end, even my talk with the district attorney. "Well," he said, when I was through, "you’ve played it pretty slick—so far. But how are you going to keep that gang from shooting you up, when they find out what you put over on them?" "It’ll be a poor friend of Blackie," I said, "who takes a shot at me. I’ve got too many friends on the bench. And the district attorney would sure hand him a dirty deal." He nodded assent. According to his lights the Old Man fought fairly. He had no mean personal animosity. He handed me a cigar. I smoked it silently while he was thinking things out.