Abandoning his straight jabs, he danced in and out with short-arm swings to the face and neck and eyes. He pounded the ears until they resembled cauliflowers. He made a pulp of the Dropper’s face. The end came in less than a second. Beaten into near-insensibility, tottering and bloated--the Dropper attempted to reach the door that led to the opium-joint. He remembered a gat he had planted there. He lowered his shielding left shoulder. His jaw was exposed. Fay poised on tiptoes, drew back his right fist and sent it home with the tendons of his legs strained in the effort. His weight, his rage, his science and clean living were in that blow. It milled the brute, staggered and brought him crashing, first to his knees, then over on his back, where he lay with his swollen face turned toward the ceiling. Little Emily glided to the door. She waited with her eyes fixed and shimmering. Fay breathed deeply. He turned, unrolled his silk sleeves and said: “Will--you--get my hat and coat and cane, please?” Little Emily helped him on with his coat. Her hands trembled. “Now get _your_ things. You’re going away from here.” She returned within three minutes. “I’m ready,” she said. “You saw me knock him out?” “Yes.” “Go look at him.” Emily hurried into the room. She knelt by the Dropper’s head. She came back to Fay and whispered: “I’m not afraid of him any more.” “Why, little Emily?” “Because you are stronger than he is.” Fay opened the door that led to the hallway where the gas-flare showed in the gloom. “Have you everything?” he asked. Emily pointed to a pasteboard hatbox. Fay lifted it gallantly. “Come on,” he said. “Where are you going to take me?” she asked, humbly. “I’m going to take you to the house of the good woman on the Hudson.” “And what are _you_ going to do?” “I? I’m going to get word to Charley O’Mara that I kept my promise--and his kid’s all right.” THE END [Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the February 1920 issue of Blue Book magazine.]