"In thim days," explained "Split," "thar was some sort of mix-up in the Front Office; some ov th' pircint bein' hild out by thim as had th' handlin' un it, as it came frish from th' guns. Ye'll onderston', Cig., by thot which soide th' beefin' came from. An' whin this Tooth uv yourn began his tip-off, the Front Office guys thot claimed they had bin done dirt, says, 'Ef we ain't in on the game as we should be, why, no game goes.' An' they begins to throw it in to us, as I've said. 'Twas th' owld story, Cig., th' owld story. Whin there's trouble in th' Front Office, 'tis worked off on the guns." "And so, Split," said I, "you too got your bit through Tooth?" I had detected the tone of personal dislike to "Tooth" in the old fellow's talk, and made a guess at the reason. "Ye guess roight, me chickin, though how ye guessed, th' divil knows, seem' 's I said nawthing. An' why th' mug put th' rap on me I'm not knowin'. T'ree days before I was jumped into th' sweat-box, I staked him to a tin-spot, for I'd touched for a fat leather." And "Split" scowled darkly. "And what happened next?" "Split" held an imaginary match between his thumb and forefinger, blew twice, and shook his head. By which I knew that the guns that had been squealed on, or the mob with whom they were associated, had twice tried to take Robins's life or "put his light out," and had failed in so doing. "And then?" "Thin," replied the veteran, easily, "me brave bucko framed it up that there was too much free lead floatin' in th' oir in thim parts, an' nixt comes news that he had been pinched for connin' a bunch of Eastern towerists at Manitou. But his fall-money [funds for such emergencies!] greased the elbows [bribed the detectives] an' he made th' git away all right, all right, an' th' rest ye know. An' from that time on I nivir seen or hear uv him till wan day, three years since. Thin Clivir Saunders, an old-time 'Frisco gun, tills me that Tooth was gaffin [residing] in way up sthyle on Eighty-sivinth Street, Wist, aginst th' Park. I misdoubted, but Clivir was roight, fur I stalled th' crib, an' sure enough me ex-friend comes out an' hops abourd his big gas-buggy an' away loike a wad uv easy. 'Oh, Ya,' ses I, 'somethin' doin'.' An' I tips off Clivir, an' th' nixt day whin Tooth's chaw--choof--what th' ---- is that Frinch name, anyhow, Cig.?--whin th' feller with th' goggles sets her spinnin', a husky auto in which was me an' Clivir, slips in th' track uv Tooth an' nivir loses soight uv him 'te we marks him down in wan of thim Hivin-hitting office joints on lower Broadway. "But I was dead leary of followin' on below th' Loine [the margin of the financial district in New York City, beyond which it is supposed that no crook can venture owing to the unwritten law of the police]. An' I ses so, to Clivir.