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It's de cops makes de big money in little old Manhattan, dat's who it is." "The man who knows!" said Jimmy. "Tell me more, Spike. I suppose a good many of the New York force do get rich by graft?" "Sure. Look at old man McEachern." "I wish I could. Tell me about him, Spike. You seemed to know him pretty well." "Me? Sure. Dere wasn't a woise old grafter dan him in de bunch.
"It's not yerself thot is as woise as Moses in the wilderness, moind thot!" And her clenched fist shook vigorously to emphasize her words. After that Delaney never strayed from the proper trail again. All of the boomers but Jack Rasco were now on hand, and as hour after hour went by and Rasco did not turn up, Pawnee Brown grew anxious about the welfare of his right-hand man.
"Mullins is my monaker, boss. Spike, dey calls me." "And you make a living at this sort of thing?" "Not so woise." "How did you get in here?" Spike Mullins grinned. "Gee! Ain't de window open?" "If it hadn't been?" "I'd a' busted it." Jimmy eyed the fellow fixedly. "Can you use an oxy-acetylene blow-pipe?" he demanded. Spike was on the point of drinking. He lowered his glass, and gaped.
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