“What for did you do it?” pursued 9009.
“Thought they’d put me in this hole,” admitted the thin voice. “I knowed you’d be feelin’ like hell about bein’ fooled.”
“Fooled?”—the voice of 9009 rose in a bellow.
“’Bout the framed-up break. Nichols, that bunco-man, he was the stool-pigeon that framed it for Jennings and the yard captain. Guess he’ll get a pardon now. And ‘Shorty’ Hayes, he’s laughing at ye; says you and he heard Jennings talk about the frame-up that time he and you was painting under the captain’s window———”
The little man’s voice died abruptly. 9009 had hurled himself upon the steel walls, and he was beating them with hands and feet, crushing his face against them in an effort to bite. He saw now. He saw himself, up on the painter’s platform with “Shorty” Hayes, hearing the words of Jennings floating out through the open window; he saw Nichols, the stony-faced confidence-man gradually preparing the break, and then, when it had come, killing the burglar; he saw
