"Oh, no, you won't!" And then Larry's old anger against Gavegan got
into his tongue and made it wag tauntingly. "You didn't get me the
last time; that was a slip and police stools got me. All by yourself,
Gavegan, you couldn't get anything. Your brain's got flat tires, and
its motor doesn't fire, and its clutch is broken. The only thing about
it that still works is the horn. You've got a hell of a horn, Gavegan,
and it never stops blowing."

A tug was nearing the dock, and by its light Larry saw the terrific
swing that the enraged detective started. Larry swayed slightly aside,
and as Gavegan lunged by, Larry's right fist drove into Gavegan's
chin--drove with all the power of his dislike and all the strength of
five years in a Y.M.C.A. gymnasium and a year in a prison boiler-room.

Gavegan went down and out.

Larry gazed a moment at the dim, sprawling figure, then turned and
made his way off the pier and again to the door of the pawnshop. Casey
was gone; he could see no one within but Old Isaac, the assistant.

Larry opened the door and entered. "Hello, Isaac. Where's
grandmother?"

It is not a desirable trait in one connected with a pawnshop, that is
also reputed to be a fence, to show surprise or curiosity. So Isaac's
reply was confined to a few facts and brief direction.

Wondering, Larry mounted the stairway which opened from the
confidential business room behind the pawnshop. It was common enough