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.
Everything lovely and easy. Then Mr. Victim introduces a few
specialties. Picks a gun from somewhere around his shirt-front, shoots
the garroter over his shoulder; kills the man in front, who is at him
with a stiletto, ducks a couple of shots from the gang, and lays out two
more of 'em. The rest take to the briny. Tally: two dead, one dying, one
wounded, Mr. Guest walks to the shore end, meets two patrolmen, and
turns in his gun. 'I've done a job for you,' says he. So they pinch him.
He's in the police station, _incomunicado_."
Throughout the narrative, Mr. Greenough had thrown in little, purring
interjections of "Good! Good!"--"Yes."--"Ah! good!" At the conclusion
Mallory exclaimed!
"Moses! That is a story! You say it isn't yours? Why not?"
"Because it's Banneker's."
"Why?"
"He's the guest with the gun."
Mallory jumped in his chair. "Banneker!" he exclaimed. "Oh, hell!" he
added disconsolately.
"Takes the shine out of the story, doesn't it?" observed Burt with a
malicious smile.
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