“I told you them Gophers were tough students,” was the comment of Whitey Dutch. My friend began forcing his way forward. As he plowed through the crowd, Whitey Dutch and Slimmy, having advantage of his wake, kept close at his heels. Slimmy threw me a whispered word: “Be th' way th' mob is actin', I t'ink Ike copped one.” Slimmy, before the lapse of many minutes, was again at my side, attended by Whitey Dutch. The pair wore that manner of quick yet neutral appreciation which belongs--we'll say--with such as English army officers visiting the battlefield of Santiago while the action between the Spaniards and the Americans is being waged. It wasn't their fight, it was an Eastman-Gopher fight, but as fullblown Five Pointers it became them vastly to be present. Also, they might learn something. “Ike dropped one,” nodded Whitey Dutch, answering the question in my eye. “It's Ledwich.” “What was the row about?” I asked. “Whitey Louie. The Gophers was goin' to hand it to him; but just then Ike comes through th' door on th' run, an' wit' that they outs wit' their rods an' goes to peggin' at him. Then Ike gets to goin' an' cops Ledwich.” “Th' best th' Gophers can get,” observed Slimmy--and his manner was as the manner of one balancing an account--“th' best th' Gophers can get is an even break; an' to do that they'll have to cash on Ike. Whitey Louie? He makes his get-away all right. Say, Whitey, let's beat it round to the Tenderloin Station, an' get th' finish.” The finish was soon told. Ike the Blood lay dead on the station house floor; a bullet had drilled its dull way through his lungs. An officer was just telephoning his people in Chrystie Street. “Now do youse see?” said Whitey Dutch, correcting what he conceived to be Slimmy's skepticism; “that fortune tellin' skirt handed out th' right dope. 'One croaked!--Ike in th' hurry-up wagon!--no trial!' That's th' spiel she makes; an' it falls true, see!” “Ike oughter have dug down for another bone,” returned Slimmy, more than half convinced; “she'd have put him hep to that bullet in his breather, mebby.” “W'at good 'ud that have done?” “Good? If he'd got th' tip, he might have ducked--you can't tell.” “It's a bad business,” I commented to my friend, who had rejoined me. “It would be a good thing”--shrugging his cynical Central Office shoulders--“if, with a change of names, it could happen every day in the year. By the way, I forgot my umbrella; let's go back to the Bal Tabarin.” V.--INDIAN LOUIE