When the day dawned there existed between the two gangs a state of war more bitter than any in their record, for this time it was chieftain who had assaulted chieftain, Royal blood had been spilt.
Such was the explanation of the lull in the campaign against
At present there had been no pitched battle. As was usual between the gangs, war had broken out in a somewhat tentative fashion at first. There had been skirmishes by the wayside, but nothing more. The two armies were sparring for an opening.
Smith was distinctly relieved at the respite, for necessitating careful thought. This was the defection of Kid Brady.
The Kid’s easy defeat of Cyclone Dick Fisher had naturally created a sensation in sporting circles. He had become famous in a night. It was not with surprise, therefore, that Smith received from his fighting editor the information that he had been matched against one Eddie Wood, whose fame outshone even that of the late Cyclone.
The Kid, a white man to the core, exhibited quite a feudal loyalty to the paper which had raised him from the ruck and placed him on the road to eminence.
“Say the word,” he said, “and I’ll call it off. If you feel you need me around here, Mr. Smith, say so, and I’ll side-step Eddie.”
“Comrade Brady,” said Smith with enthusiasm, “I have had occasion before to call you sport. I do so again. But I’m not going to stand in your way. If you eliminate this Comrade Wood, they will have to give you a chance against Jimmy Garvin, won’t they?”
“I guess that’s right,” said the Kid. “Eddie stayed nineteen rounds against Jimmy, and, if I can put him away, it gets me clear into line with Jim, and he’ll have to meet me.”
“Then go in and win, Comrade Brady. We shall miss you. It will be as if a ray of sunshine had been removed from the office. But you mustn’t throw a chance away.”
“I’ll train at White Plains,” said the Kid, “so I’ll be pretty near in case I’m wanted.”
“Oh, we shall be all right,” said Smith, “and if you win, we’ll bring out a special number. Good luck, Comrade Brady, and many thanks for your help.”
John, when he arrived at the office and learned the news, was for relying on their own unaided efforts.
“And, anyway,” he said, “I don’t see who else there is to help us. You could tell the police, I suppose,” he went on doubtfully.
Smith shook his head.
“The New York policeman, Comrade John, is, like all great men, somewhat peculiar. If you go to a New York policeman and exhibit a black eye, he is more likely to express admiration for the handiwork of the citizen responsible for the same than sympathy. No; since coming to this city I have developed a habit of taking care of myself, or employing private help. I do not want allies who will merely shake their heads at Comrade Reilly and his merry men, however sternly. I want someone who, if necessary, will soak it to them good.”
“Sure,” said John. “But who is there now the Kid’s gone?”
“Who else but Comrade Jarvis?” said Smith.
“Jarvis? Bat Jarvis?”
“The same. I fancy that we shall find, on enquiry, that we are ace high with him. At any rate, there is no harm in sounding him. It is true that he may have forgotten, or it may be that it is to Comrade Brown alone that he is —”
“Who’s Brown?” asked John.
“Our late stenographer,” explained Smith. “A Miss Brown. She entertained Comrade Jarvis’ cat, if you remember. I wonder what has become of her. She has sent in three more corking efforts on the subject of Broster Street, but she gives no address. I wish I knew where she was. I’d have liked for you to meet her.”
CHAPTER XXII
A GATHERING OF CAT SPECIALISTS
“It will probably be necessary,” said Smith, as they set out for Groome Street, “to allude to you, Comrade John, in the course of this interview, as one of our most eminent living cat-fanciers. You have never met Comrade Jarvis, I believe? Well, he is a gentleman with just about enough forehead to prevent his front hair getting inextricably blended with his eyebrows, and he owns twenty-three cats, each with a leather collar round its neck. It is, I fancy, the cat note which we shall have to strike to-day. If only Comrade Brown were with us, we could appeal to his finer feelings. But he has seen me only once and you never, and I should not care to bet that he will feel the least particle of dismay at the idea of our occiputs getting all mussed up with a black-jack. But when I inform him that you are an English cat-fancier, and that in your island home you have seventy-four fine cats, mostly Angoras, that will be a different matter. I shall be surprised if he does not fall on your neck.”
They found Mr. Jarvis in his fancier’s shop, engaged in the intellectual occupation of greasing a cat’s paws with butter. He looked up as they entered, and then resumed his task.
“Comrade Jarvis,” said Smith, “we meet again. You remember me?”
“Nope,” said Mr. Jarvis promptly.
Smith was not discouraged.
“Ah!” he said tolerantly, “the fierce rush of New York life! How it wipes from the retina to-day the image impressed on it but yesterday. Is it not so, Comrade Jarvis?”
The cat-expert concentrated himself on his patient’s paws without replying.
“A fine animal,” said Smith, adjusting his monocle. “To what particular family of the
