He knew they were going to "bash" him, probably kill him. He might have been able to handle "Slim" alone, but those two powerful bruisers--they'd kill him, sure. He checked an impulse to scream. They'd throttle him if he did. Maybe he could talk himself out of the trap. Twice before he managed to gasp out "Slim!" his lips formed the word, but no sound came from them. "Shut your -------- mouth," said "Slim" through his teeth. He threw himself back as though he expected the words to be followed by a rain of blows. His back was flat against the wall. If he could only get around to the window he could dart out and down the fire escape. Divining his one and only hope of escape, one of the "bashers" sprang forward, grabbed him by an arm and whirled him into a chair. He cringed as the bruiser stood over him, his big fists clenched and ready to strike. "Get back, Louie," he heard "Slim" order sharply. Louie stepped away from him and "Slim" faced him. "Murphy," said "Slim," speaking slowly, "you've got one chance to get out of this." "What've I done, 'Slim'?" his voice shook. In his terror he could only think of trying to "stall." "Don't pull that stuff on me, you damn stool-pigeon," snapped "Slim." "You know what I want from you. Who was that with you last night? Come on, spit it out." "What're ya talkin' about, 'Slim'?" "I told you not to pull that stuff. It won't get you anything, see? We know you were in it. You -------- fool, didn't you know we'd find out about you?" "Ah, 'Slim,' ya got me wrong, I ain't----" A hand clutched his hair. He could feel the finger nails digging into his scalp. With a jerk that shook him to his feet Louie threw him half out of the chair. "Cut it, Louie," he heard "Slim" say as he remained where he had been thrown, fearful of lifting his head. For a minute there was a dreadful silence. "Murphy," said "Slim," "do you remember what happened to 'Gat' Mollwitz and 'Beanie' Wilson?" Did he remember? A nauseating feeling gripped him. "Gat" and "Beanie" had defied the "Gink" and they were found one morning beaten and kicked, broken and bleeding. They died in agony a few hours later. "Don't, 'Slim,' don't!" he gasped. "Out with it, then, who was that with you last night? Come through and you can get out of town tonight." Right then something happened inside of Murphy, something a psychologist might be able to describe in vague scientific terms. He became possessed of a desperate courage far greater than he had ever dreamed of having. In that moment of metamorphosis he became a fatalist. He realized that whether he gave "Slim" the information he sought or not the result would be the same. The life would be kicked and beaten out of him. The "Gink," to save himself and Gibson at all hazards, would not take a further chance by permitting him to live.