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Updated: June 27, 2025
"If John Flint's not fancy enough for you," he suggested truculently, "suppose you call me Percy? Some peach of a moniker, Percy, ain't it?" "Percy?" "Sure, Percy," he grinned impudently. "But if you got a grouch against Percy, can it, and make me Algy. I don't mind. It's not me beefing about monikers; it's you."
"Very well, we'll walk on up. This is North Kentwood, isn't it?" "Ain't much choice," he shrugged, "but it is. You can smell it a mile. Say, you lady owner there" he laughed at his own astuteness in not being taken in "you know the monikers, don't you?
A "dip" had given it to her, and the underworld, quick and trenchant in its "monikers," had instantly ratified it. There was not a crook or denizen of crimeland, probably, who did not know the White Moll; there was, probably, not one to-day who knew, or cared, that she was Rhoda Gray! She went on, traversing block after block, entering a less deserted, though no less unsavory, neighborhood.
He changed monikers when he took to the road." "What was he to you?" "A man I'm going to find." "No matter where the trail takes you?" "No matter where." At this Lefty was seized with unaccountable laughter. He literally strained his lungs with that Homeric outburst. When he wiped the tears from his eyes, at length, the shadow on the opposite side of the doorway had disappeared.
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