else would have done the same. You would have yourself if somebody kept insulting the girl you were with."
"Is that so? Well, I don't imagine a hood like you would have a dame with him that could be insulted. So there!"
Without warning, he gave Tony a terrific back-hand slap across the mouth, a hard stinging blow that staggered the boy for a moment and made him draw in his breath sharply as he became conscious of the pain in his bruised lips. Then his eyes glinted with fury and his hands went up.
"Don't lift your hands to me, you punk!" snarled Flanagan. "Or I'll call in a dozen men from out there and have 'em beat you half to death with rubber hoses."
"You would," assented Tony bitterly. "You're the type."
"What do you mean—I'm the type?"
"Nothin'."
"What's your game, anyhow?"
"I haven't any."
"No? Well, you hang around with Klondike O'Hara's mob, and they're a bunch of bad eggs. Come on now, quit stallin'—what's your racket?"
"Nothing—in particular."
