“Never fear!” returned Slimmy, reassuringly; “th' day they plant Cæsar, Mark Antony goes in to make th' funeral spiel. He's th' Roman Senator Grady, Mark Antony is, an' he burns 'em up. Brutus an' his bunch get th' tip up at their club house, an' take it on th' run. With that, Cæsar's gang gets to goin', an' they stand Rome on its nut from the Capitoline Hill to the Tarpeian Rock. Brutus an' the' other mugwumps gets it where th' baby wore th' beads, an' there ain't been a Seth Low or a Fulton Cutting along th' Tiber from that day to this. Oh, they've got us left standin' sideways, them Guineas have, in some things.” About the time Slimmy began his lucid setting forth of Brutus, Cæsar and their political differences, Ellison and Razor, down at Nigger Mike's in Pell Street, were laying their heads together. A bottle of whiskey stood between them, for they required inspiration. There were forty people in the room, some dancing, some drinking, some talking. But no one came near Ellison and Razor, for their manner showed that they did not wish to be disturbed. As the Nailer observed, “They had a hen on,” and when gentlemen have a hen on they prefer being quiet. “I've no use for Paul Kelly,” whispered Razor in response to some remark of Ellison's. “You bet he knows enough not to show his snout along Eighth Avenue. He'd get it good if he did.” “My notion,” said Ellison, “is to turn th' trick right now.” “Just th' two of us?” “Why not?” “He'd have his guerillas; youse have got to figure on that.” “They wouldn't stand th' gaff. It's the difference between guys who knows what they wants, and guys who don't. Once we started, they'd tear th' side out the Brighton in the get-away.” “All right,” said Razor, bringing down his hand; “I'm wit' you.” “Just a moment,” and Ellison motioned Razor back into his chair. “If Paul's dancin', we must stall him into th' bar. I don't want to hoit any of them skirts.” It was the delightful habit of Slimmy, on the tail of one of his lectures, to order beer for his hearers. That's why he was listened to with so much interest. Were every lecturer to adopt Slimmy's plan, he would never fail of an audience. Also, his fame would grow. Slimmy, having finished with Cæsar and the others, had just signed up to the waiter to go his merry rounds, when Ellison and Razor slipped in from the street. Their hands were on their guns, their eyes on Kelly. Harrington saw it coming. “Your gatt, Paul, your gatt!” he shouted. The rule in Gangland is to let every man kill his own snakes. Harrington's conduct crowded hard upon the gross. It so disgusted Razor that, to show Harrington what he thought of it, he half turned and laced a bullet through his brain. “Now you've got something of your own to occupy your mind,” quoth Razor.