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Updated: May 21, 2025
Burt. "Here it is, boiled down. Guest on an anchored yacht returning late, sober, through the mist. Wharf-gang shooting craps in a pier-shed. They size him up and go to it; six of 'em. Knives and one gun: maybe more. The old game: one asks for the time. Another sneaks up behind and gives the victim the elbow-garrote. The rest rush him. Well, they got as far as the garrote.
"See here! Is your name Banneker, by any chance?" "Yes." "You're the man who cleared out the wharf-gang." "Yes." Densmore had been born and brought up in a cult to which courage is the basic, inclusive virtue for mankind, as chastity is for womankind. To his inground prejudice a man who was simply and unaffectedly brave must by that very fact be fine and admirable.
From a side room appeared a thick, heavy-shouldered man with a feral countenance, who slouched aggressively forward, as the intruder announced himself. "My name is Banneker." "Cheest!" hissed the thick bouncer in tones of dismay, and stopped short. Turning, Banneker recognized him as one of the policemen whom his evidence had retired from the force in the wharf-gang investigation. "Oh!
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