“I know that gang of card sharps in Barclay Street,” remarked Gothecore; “an' they're a bunch of butes at that! But let me go on: I'll tell you what we can do; and then I'll tell you why it won't be fly to do it. In th' finish, however, it will all be up to you, Madam. We'll act on any steer you hand us. If you say 'pinch,' pinch goes. “But as I was tellin': I'm dead onto Billy Van Flange; I know him like a gambler knows an ace. He hits up th' bottle pretty stiff at that, an' any man who finds him sober has got to turn out hours earlier than I do. An' I'll tell you another thing, Madam: This Billy Van Flange is a tough mug to handle. More'n once, I've tried to point him for home, an' every time it was a case of nothin' doin'. Sometimes he shed tears, an' sometimes he wanted to scrap; sometimes he'd give me th' laugh, an' sometimes he'd throw a front an' talk about havin' me fired off th' force. He'd run all the way from th' sob or th' fiery eye, to th' gay face or th' swell front, accordin' as he was jagged.” While Gothecore thus descanted, the Widow Van Flange buried her face in her handkerchief. She heard his every word, however, and when Gothecore again consulted the ceiling, she signed for him to go on. “Knowin' New York as I do,” continued Gothecore, “I may tell you, Madam, that every time I get my lamps on that son of yours, I hold up my mits in wonder to think he aint been killed.” The Widow Van Flange started; her anxious face was lifted from the handkerchief. “That's on th' level! I've expected to hear of him bein' croaked, any time this twelve months. Th' best I looked for was that th' trick wouldn't come off in my precinct. He carries a wad in his pocket; an' he sports a streak of gilt, with a thousand-dollar rock, on one of his hooks; an' I could put you next to a hundred blokes, not half a mile from here, who'd do him up for half th' price. That's straight! Billy Van Flange, considerin' th' indoocements he hangs out, an' th' way he lays himself wide open to th' play, is lucky to be alive. “Now why is he alive, Madam? It is due to them very gamblin' ducks in Barclay Street. Not that they love him; but once them skin gamblers gets a sucker on th' string, they protect him same as a farmer does his sheep. They look on him as money in th' bank; an' so they naturally see to it that no one puts his light out. “That's how it stands, Madam!” And now Gothecore made ready to bring his observations to a close. This Billy Van Flange, like every other rounder, has his hangouts. His is this deadfall on Barclay Street, with that hash-house keeper to give him th' dough for his checks. Now I'll tell you what I think. While he sticks to th' Barclay Street mob, he's safe. You'll get him back each time. They'll take his stuff; but they'll leave him his life, an' that's more than many would do.