“Tail nothin'!” scoffed Pretty Agnes, bitterly; “me mind's made up. All I'll do is wait. If Sammy falls, it'll be th' Ghost's last rap. I know a party who's crazy gone on me. For two weeks I've been handin' him th' ice pitcher. All I has to do is soften up a little, an' he'll cook th' Ghost th' minute I says th' woid.” Pretty Agnes, as though the sight of the Ghost were too much for her feelings, left the place. The Ghost himself, appeared uneasy, and didn't remain long. The Nailer turned soberly to Mollie Squint. “Do youse t'ink,” said he, “there's anythin' in that crack of Agnes?” “Search me!” returned Mollie Squint, conservatively. “I ain't sayin' a woid.” “It's funny about youse skoits,” remarked the Nailer, his manner an imitation of old Jimmy's. “Here's Agnes talkin' of havin' th' Ghost trimmed in case he tips off Sammy to th' dicks, an' yet when Slimmy an' th' Grabber puts Indian Louie over th' jump, neither Agnes nor you ever so much as yelps!” “You don't understand,” said Mollie Squint, tolerantly. “Sammy's nice to Agnes. Louie? Th' best he ever hands us is to sting us for our rolls, an' then go blow 'em on that blonde. There's a big difference, Nailer, if youse could only see it.” “Well,” replied the Nailer, who boasted a heart untouched, “all I can say is youse dolls are too many for me! You've got me wingin'.” Midnight! The theatre of operations was a cigar store, in Canal Street near the Bowery. The Ghost was on the outside. The safe was a back number; to think of soup would have been paying it a compliment. After an hour's work with a can-opener, Sammy and Big Head declared themselves within ten minutes of the money. All that remained was to batter in the inner-lining of the box. Big Head cocked a sudden and suspicious ear. “What's that?” he whispered. Sammy had just reversed the can-opener, for an attack upon that sheet-iron lining. He paused in mid-swing, and listened. “It's a pinch,” he cried, crashing down the heavy iron tool with a cataract of curses. “It's a pinch, an' th' Ghost is in on it. Agnes had him right!” It was a pinch sure enough. Even as Sammy spoke, Rocheford and Wertheimer of the Central Office were covering them with their pistols. “Hands up!” came from Wertheimer. “You've got us bang right!” sighed Big Head. Outside they found Cohen, also of the Central Office, with the ruffles on the Ghost. “That's only a throw-off,” sneered Sammy, pointing to the bracelets. The Ghost began to whine. The loose lips became looser than ever, the drooping lids drooped lower still. “W'y, Sammy,” he remonstrated weepingly, “youse don't t'ink I'd go an' give youse up!” “That's all right,” retorted Sammy, with sullen emphasis. “Youse'll get yours, Ghost.”