The Mucker | Page 5

own district; but for a bunch of yaps from south of
Twelfth Street to attempt to pull off any such coarse work in his
bailiwick--why it was unthinkable.
A hero and rescuer of lesser experience than Billy Byrne would have
rushed melodramatically into the midst of the fray, and in all
probability have had his face pushed completely through the back of
his head, for the guys from Twelfth Street were not of the rah-rah-boy
type of hoodlum --they were bad men, with an upper case B. So Billy
crept stealthily along in the shadows until he was quite close to them,
and behind them. On the way he had gathered up a cute little granite
paving block, than which there is nothing in the world harder, not even
a Twelfth Street skull. He was quite close now to one of the men--he
who was wielding the officer's club to such excellent disadvantage to
the officer --and then he raised the paving block only to lower it
silently and suddenly upon the back of that unsuspecting head --"and
then there were two."
Before the man's companions realized what had happened Billy had
possessed himself of the fallen club and struck one of them a blinding,
staggering blow across the eyes. Then number three pulled his gun and
fired point-blank at Billy. The bullet tore through the mucker's left
shoulder. It would have sent a more highly organized and nervously
inclined man to the pavement; but Billy was neither highly organized
nor nervously inclined, so that about the only immediate effect it had
upon him was to make him mad--before he had been but
peeved--peeved at the rank crust that had permitted these cheap-skates
from south of Twelfth Street to work his territory.
Thoroughly aroused, Billy was a wonder. From a long line of burly

ancestors he had inherited the physique of a prize bull. From earliest
childhood he had fought, always unfairly, so that he knew all the tricks
of street fighting. During the past year there had been added to Billy's
natural fighting ability and instinct a knowledge of the scientific end of
the sport. The result was something appalling--to the gink from Twelfth
Street.
Before he knew whether his shot had killed Billy his gun had been
wrenched from his hand and flung across the street; he was down on
the granite with a hand as hard as the paving block scrambling his
facial attractions beyond hope of recall.
By this time Patrolman Lasky had staggered to his feet, and most
opportunely at that, for the man whom Billy had dazed with the club
was recovering. Lasky promptly put him to sleep with the butt of the
gun that he had been unable to draw when first attacked, then he turned
to assist Billy. But it was not Billy who needed assistance--it was the
gentleman from Bohemia. With difficulty Lasky dragged Billy from his
prey.
"Leave enough of him for the inquest," pleaded Lasky.
When the wagon arrived Billy had disappeared, but Lasky had
recognized him and thereafter the two had nodded pleasantly to each
other upon such occasions as they chanced to meet upon the street.
Two years elapsed before the event transpired which proved a crisis in
Billy's life. During this period his existence had been much the same as
before. He had collected what was coming to him from careless and
less muscular citizens. He had helped to stick up a half-dozen saloons.
He had robbed the night men in two elevated stations, and for a while
had been upon the pay-roll of a certain union and done strong arm work
in all parts of the city for twenty-five dollars a week.
By day he was a general utility man about Larry Hilmore's boxing
academy, and time and time again Hilmore urged him to quit drinking
and live straight, for he saw in the young giant the makings of a great
heavy-weight; but Billy couldn't leave the booze alone, and so the best

that he got was an occasional five spot for appearing in preliminary
bouts with third- and fourth-rate heavies and has-beens; but during the
three years that he had hung about Hilmore's he had acquired an
enviable knowledge of the manly art of self-defense.
On the night that things really began to happen in the life of Billy
Byrne that estimable gentleman was lolling in front of a saloon at the
corner of Lake and Robey. The dips that congregated nightly there
under the protection of the powerful politician who owned the place
were commencing to assemble. Billy knew them all, and nodded to
them as they passed him. He noted surprise in the faces of several as
they saw him standing there. He wondered what it was all about, and
determined to ask the