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The man stopped short, and his hands went over his head. Studs leaped before him, the gun pointed by a trembling hand. The realization that it was just like a movie holdup flew through his brain.

“Don’t... m-move... or I’ll... drrrr... drill you.”

The victim smiled with self-possession.

“Son, you better put that toy away!”

The gun fell. He turned and ran lickety-split down the alley, hearing diminishingly, the echo of hearty laughter.

IV

At two o’clock in the morning, Studs Lonigan walked breathlessly along Fifty-eighth Street. A large man with shoulders bent, and something of a pot-belly, approached him.

`Bill?”

Studs stopped.

“Come on home, Bill,” the man said with kindness.

Studs walked beside him.

“Bill, you don’t ever want to be doing a thing like this again. Your mother’s heartbroken!” Studs was glad to be going home.

IV

Davey Cohen risked his last two bucks in a crap game around the Toledo docks. He stood, rattling the dice in his right hand, holding fifteen bucks in the left one; he had twenty dollars in his pocket.

“Come on, baby needs new diapers!” he said, shooting, trying to act natural and unafraid, when he was goddamn near crapping in his pants; there were plenty of big tough babies in the game. He’d like to get their dough, but if he did, he knew what would happen.

He looked at the dice: seven. He picked up the pot of eight bucks. He threw ten down. If he lost ten or fifteen bucks, it wouldn’t look like he had much, and he could slip off. The money was faded, and Davey rattled the dice in his right hand.

“Shake ‘em, Jew!” crabbed a big, beefy-faced Lakes sailor.

“I’m shaking,” Davey replied apologetically.

Seven again. He picked up five and left fifteen on the ground. A bruiser complained about the dice. Davey held them for inspection in the palm of his hand.

“I know they ain’t loaded. But use these ones. Them damn things is jinxed!”

Davey’s first roll with the new dice was a seven. He coughed sharply and laid twenty bucks down.

“You damn kike, you got too many horseshoes,” a sorehead said as Davey raked in the pot.

“I’m shakin’ fair, brother. They’re just hot for me this time. The dice get hot for a guy like this maybe once in his whole life.”

“They get too damn hot when 1 lay my sheets down.”

“Want to finish my turn and try ‘em yourself?”

“Shake!”

“I was just lucky tonight,” Davey said, picking up the winnings of the last pot.

They glowered at him. He said so long. He walked slowly away, trying to feel that it wouldn’t happen. He’d get away, get a swell meal, have a high-class woman for the night. Then, he’d buy a new suit, and ride back home on the cushions.

It would sure be swell, seeing Paulie Haggerty, Studs, Red, Tommy Doyle, all of the old guys, the best gang in the world. Hadn’t seen them in three years. It sure would be great.

He knew that he was being followed. As soon as he had a chance, he’d run. He walked along, as if he wasn’t quaking with fear. He glanced back. Two of the bruisers were drawing close to him. He started to run. He tripped. They coldcocked him, and left him unconscious. They weren’t letting a runty, hook-nosed kike get their dough.

The two bruisers fought over the dough, and one of them was laid out.

When Davey came to, feeling the bump on his head, he cried like a baby. Christ, wouldn’t he ever get a decent break?

CHAPTER FOUR

I

He could hear the old man in the parlor, happily telling to the old lady that this summer sure, they’d have to step out a little, and go out to Riverview Park, and have a good time, like they’d been planning to for a long time. And Fran was in her room, singing a new song about west-side chauffeurs who kiss ‘em where you find ‘em and leave ‘em where you kiss ‘em.

Studs studied himself in the mirror. He tipped his first straw hat at a rakish angle. He felt his face and looked closely where he’d shaven off the down. He stood back, erect, and pulled down the sleeves of his gray suit, holding them with the last three fingers of each hand. He arranged his