Slimmy looked curiously at Whitey Dutch. “He's chased off to one of them fortune-tellers,” said Whitey. “Do youse take any stock in them ginks who claims they can skin a deck of cards, or cock their eye into a teacup, an' then put you next to everyt'ing that'll happen to you in a year?” Slimmy aimed this at me. Upon my assurance, given with emphasis, that I attached no weight to so-called seers and fortunetellers, he was so magnanimous as to indorse my position. “They're a bunch of cheap bunks,” he declared. “I've gone ag'inst 'em time an' time, an' there's nothin' in it. One of 'em gives me his woid--after me comin' across wit' fifty cents--th' time Belfast Danny's in trouble, that Danny'll be toined out all right. Two days later Danny gets settled for five years.” “Ike's stuck on 'em,” remarked Whitey. Slimmy and Whitey Dutch, speaking freely and I think veraciously, told me many things. Whitey explained that, while he and Slimmy were shining lights of the Five Points, yet to be found fraternizing with Ike the Blood--an Eastman--was in perfect keeping with gang proprieties. For, as he pointed out, there was momentary truce between the Eastmans and the Five Points. Among the gangs, in seasons of gang peace, the nobles--by word of Whitey--were expected to make stately calls of ceremony and good fellowship upon one another, as had been the wont among Highland chieftains in the days of Bruce and Wallace. “Speaking of the Gas House Gang: how do they live?” I asked. “Stickin' up lushes mostly.” “How much of this stick-up work goes on?” “Well”--thoughtfully--“they'll pull off as many as twenty-five stick-ups to-night.” “There's no such number of squeals coming in at headquarters.” The contradiction emanated from my Central Office friend, who felt criticized by inference. “Squeals!” exclaimed Whitey Dutch with warmth, “w'y should they squeal? The Gas House push'd cook 'em if they squealed. Suppose right now I was to go out an' get put in th' air; do you think I'd squeal? Well, I should say not; I'm no mutt! They'd about come gallopin' 'round tomorry wit' bale-sticks, an' break me arms an' legs, or mebby knock me block off. W'y, not a week ago, three Gas House _shtockers_ stands me up in Riving-ton Street, an' takes me clock--a red one wit' two doors. Then they pinches a fiver out of me keck. They even takes me bank-book. “W'at license has a stiff like youse got to have $375 in th' bank?' they says--like that. “Next night they comes bluffin' round for me three hundred and seventy-five dollar plant--w'at do you t'ink of that? But I'm there wit' a gatt me-self that time, an' ready to give 'em an argument. W'en they sees I'm framed up, they gets cold feet. But you can bet I don't do no squealin'!” “Did you get back your watch?” “How could I get it back?” peevishly. “No, I don't get back me watch. All the same, I'll lay for them babies. Some day I'll get 'em right, an' trim 'em to the queen's taste.”