av us—deep, deep! 'Tis like Jawn Y. McCabe that was sint up the river fer falsifyin' his register lists—an' I 've seen him readin' his Bible in his cell iv'ry mornin', an' niver cud he see that he 'd done wrong—niver!" He put his pipe in his pocket and rose stiff-kneed. "'Twill all come right some day. Whin we 're dead an' gone, mebbe. But nayther through you ner me, Feeny. Nayther through you ner me." He muffled himself in his horse-blanket. "Kape yer eye on thim planks a jiffy," he said huskily, "I 'm goin' 'round the corner to get a dish av tay."
Feeny watched him go. The silence closed in behind the shuffling footsteps. The distant murmur of traffic was no more than the restlessness of a city asleep. And Nicholas Pascal Feeny was alone with the curse of his kind.
He took off his gloves. He tucked them into his belt. He drew a roll of bills from his pocket, counted off twenty-five dollars for Tammany's tithe, and put them inside the sweat-leather of his helmet to have them handy.
