Ellison was too old a practitioner to be drawn aside by the Harrington episode. He devoted himself unswervingly to Paul Kelly. Ellison's first bullet cut a hole through Kelly's coat and did no further harm. The lights were switched out at this crisis, and what shooting followed came off in the dark. There was plenty of it. The air seemed sown as thickly full of little yellow spits of flame as an August swamp of fireflies. Even so, it didn't last. It was as short lived as a July squall at sea. There was one thunder and lightning moment, during which the pistols flashed and roared, and then--stillness and utter silence! It was fairish pistol practice when you consider conditions. Paul Kelly had three bullets in him when four weeks later he asked the coppers to come and get him. He had been up in Harlem somewhere lying low. And you are not to forget Harrington. There were other casualties, also, which the police and politicians worked hand in hand to cover up. Five minutes went by after the shooting; ten minutes!--no one was in a hurry. At last a policeman arrived. He might have come sooner, but the New Brighton was a citadel of politics. Would you have had him lose his shield? The policeman felt his official way into the barroom:--empty as a drum, dark as the inside of a cow! He struck a match. By its pale and little light he made out the dead Harrington on the floor. Not a living soul, not even Goldie Cora! Goldie Cora? Said that practical damsel, when the matter was put up to her by Big Kitty, who being sentimental called Goldie Cora a quitter for leaving her dead love lying in his blood, “What good could I do? If I'd stuck I'd have got pinched; an' then--me in th' Tombs--I'd have stood a swell chance, I don't chink, of bein' at Bill's funeral.” THE END. End of Project Gutenberg's The Apaches of New York, by Alfred Henry Lewis