My friend, leading conversation in his specious Central Office way, spoke of Ike the Blood's iron fame, and slanted talk in that direction. “Ike can certainly go some!” observed Slimmy meditatively. “Take it from me, there ain't any of 'em, even th' toughest ever, wants his game.” Turning to Whitey: “Don't youse remember, Whitey, when he tears into Humpty Jackson an' two of his mob, over in Thirteenth Street, that time? There's nothin' to it! Ike simply makes 'em jump t'rough a hoop! Every lobster of 'em has his rod wit' him, too.” “They wouldn't have had the nerve to fire 'em if they'd pulled 'em,” sneered Whitey. “Ike'd have made 'em eat th' guttaperchy all off th' handles, too. Say, I don't t'ink much of that Gas House fleet. They talk strong; but they don't bring home th' goods, see!” It appeared that, in spite of his sanguinary title, Ike the Blood had never killed his man. “He's tried,” explained Slimmy, who felt as though the absent one, in his blood-guiltlessness, required defense; “but he all th' time misses. Ike's th' woist shot wit' a rod in th' woild.” “Sure, Mike!”--from Whitey Dutch, his nose in his drink; “he couldn't hit th' Singer Buildin'.” '“How does he make his money?” I asked. “Loft worker,” broke in my friend. The remark was calculated to explode the others into fresh confidences. “Don't youse believe it!” came in vigorous denial from Whitey Dutch. “Ike never cracked a bin in his life. You bulls”--this was pointed especially at my friend--“say he's a dip, too. W'y, it's a laugh! Ike couldn't pick th' pocket of a dead man--couldn't put his hand into a swimmin' tank! That's how fly he is.” “Now don't try to string me,” retorted my friend, severely. “Didn't Ike fill in with Little Maxie and his mob, when they worked the Jersey fairs?” “But that was only to do the strong-arm work, in case there's a scrap,” protested Whitey. “On th' level, Ike is woise than Big Abrams. He can't even stall. An' as for gettin' a leather or a watch, gettin' a perfecto out of a cigar box would be about his limit.” “That Joisey's a bum place; youse can go there for t'ree cents.” The last was interjected by Slimmy--who had a fine wit of his own--with the hopeful notion of diverting discussion to less exciting questions than pocket-picking at the New Jersey fairs. It developed that while Ike the Blood had now and then held up a stuss game for its bank-roll, during some desperate ebb-tide of his fortunes, he drew his big income from a yearly ball. “He gives a racket,” declared Whitey Dutch; “that's how Ike gets his dough. Th' last one he pulls off nets him about twenty-five hundred plunks.” “What price were the tickets?” I inquired. Twenty-five hundred dollars sounded large.