“Now, put up your hands,” said the captain, his face suddenly going black as the little man’s.
“I won’t,” said the little man.
“Shoot,” said the captain.
And Jennings had shot. And Jimmy Carroll had gone over backward in a thin little sprawl, a bullet in his heart.
“And now,” said the safe-cracker, his face, suddenly very sinister, bent close to 9009’s; “now Buddy, remember, I’ll cut off your head if ye open yer mouth!”
But 9009 did not answer. He sat there, his eyes upon the ground, long. And the next day, from the machine-shop of the foundry, he stole a big heavy file, just such a file as, months before, he had seen the red-striped convict of the jute-mill plunge into the shoulders of the garotter. And that night, through the long sleepless hours, he stretched deliciously to the rasp of it against his flesh, there beneath his red-striped jacket, upon his heart.
