“Hello, Whitey!” exclaimed Weasel-eye cheerily, shaking hands with Whitey Dutch. “I just leaves a namesake of yours; an' say, he's in bad!” “W'at namesake?” “Whitey Louie. A bunch of them West Side guerrillas has him cornered, over in a dump at Twenty-seventh Street and Seventh Avenoo. It looks like there'd be somethin' doin'; an', as I don't Avant no part of it, I screws out.” At the name of Whitey Louie, Ike the Blood arose to his feet. “Whitey Louie?” he questioned; “Seventh Avenoo an' Twenty-seventh Street?” “That's th' ticket,” replied Weasel-eye; “an' youse can cash on it.” Ike the Blood hurried out the door. “Whitey Louie is Ike's closest pal,” observed Whitey Dutch, explaining the hurried departure. “Will there be trouble?” I asked. “I don't t'ink so,” said Slimmy. “It's four for one they'll lay down to Ike.” “Don't put your swell bet on it!” came warningly from Whitey Dutch; “them Gophers are as tough a bunch as ever comes down the pike.” “Tough nothin'!” returned Slimmy: “they'll be duck soup to Ike.” “Why don't you look into it?” I asked, turning to my friend. As a taxpayer, I yearned for some return on that $16,000,000 a year which New York City pays for its police. That ornament of the Central Office yawned, and motioned to the waiter to bring his bill. “That sort of thing is up to the cop on the beat,” said he. “Whitey an' me 'ud get in on it,” explained Slimmy--his expression was one of half apology--“only you see we belong at th' other end of th' alley. We're Five Points; Ike an' Whitey Louie are Eastmans; an' in a clash between Eastmans an' Gophers, it's up to us to stand paws-off, see!” “That's straight talk,” coincided Whitey. “Suppose, seeing it's stopped raining, we drift over there,” said my friend, adjusting his Panama at the exact Central Office angle. As we journeyed along, I noticed Slimmy and Whitey Dutch across the street. It was already written that Whitey Dutch, himself, would be shot to death in the Stag before the year was out; but the shadow of that impending taking-off was not apparent in his face. Indeed, from that face there shone forth only pleasure in anticipation, and a lively interest. “They'd no more miss it than they'd miss a play at the theater,” remarked my friend, who saw where my glance was directed. About a ginmill, on the corner of Seventh Avenue and Twenty-seventh Street, a crowd had collected. A patrol wagon was backing up. An officer in uniform tossed a prisoner into the wagon, with no more ceremony than should attend the handling of a bag of bran. “It's Dubillier!” exclaimed Whitey Dutch, naming the prisoner. The two Five Pointers had taken position on the edge of the crowd, directly in front of my friend and me. “There's Ike!” said Slimmy, as two policemen were seen pushing their way towards the patrol wagon, Ike the Blood between them. “Them bulls is holdin' him up, too, an' his face is as pale as paper! By thunder, they've nailed him!”