stretched neck was shrunken to the sinews. There were tears in his eyes. "Vinny Doyle!"
Feeny backed him into the shadow of a doorway. "Here, Joe," he said, "pull yerself together."
The old man shook him off. "I know—I know what yeh 're thinkin'—" He passed his hand over his worried forehead. "Wait now. Vinny Doyle! It 's a name on a gravestone, that!"
Feeny stepped out to reach an empty barrel plastered over with theater posters. He rolled it into the doorway. "Sit down," he said.
The old man sat down weakly. He sighed and shook his head. In a little while he sighed again. Suddenly he asked: "D' yeh mind 'Big Six'? Old 'Big Six'?—Tweed's 'Americus Six'?"
Feeny did not understand.
"The fire injun—the big one—the double-decker," the old man urged.
"I guess that was before my time," Feeny said.
"Sure enough, it was.… Well, well… I ust to run with her, an' fight with her… An' Bill Tweed? Yeh mind Bill Tweed?"
"I mind when he died in Ludlow Street Jail," Feeny answered patiently.
The old man chuckled. "He did that. He did that. But this was thurty years befoore—down in th' injun house in Hinry Street—whin he was foreman av No. Six."
"Uh-huh," Feeny said. "Yuh 're an ol' vamp, are yuh?"
