"We may as well sit down," said Cork grimly. "Maybe Rooney will stand
the cops off, anyhow."
They sat at a table; and their hands came together again.
A number of men then entered the dark room, feeling their way about. One
of them, Rooney himself, found the switch and turned on the electric
light. The other man was a cop of the old regime--a big cop, a thick
cop, a fuming, abrupt cop--not a pretty cop. He went up to the pair at
the table and sneered familiarly at the girl.
"What are youse doin' in here?" he asked.
"Dropped in for a smoke," said Cork mildly.
"Had any drinks?"
"Not later than one o'clock."
"Get out--quick!" ordered the cop. Then, "Sit down!" he countermanded.
He took off Cork's hat roughly and scrutinized him shrewdly. "Your
name's McManus."
"Bad guess," said Cork. "It's Peterson."
"Cork McManus, or something like that," said the cop. "You put a knife
into a man in Dutch Mike's saloon a week ago."
"Aw, forget it!" said Cork, who perceived a shade of doubt in the
officer's tones. "You've got my mug mixed with somebody else's."
"Have I? Well, you'll come to the station with me, anyhow, and be looked
over. The description fits you all right.
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