—wonderin' when that would be. Well, we don't have to wonder any more. We know now that the cherries are ripe. See? An' now we'll go an' pick 'em! Where? Where d'ye suppose? Down to Charlie's, of course! I hears 'em talkin' about that, too. They ain't so' foolish! They're out for an alibi themselves. Get the idea? They was to sneak out of Charlie's without anybody seein' 'em, an' if everything broke right for 'em, they was to sneak back again an' spend the night there. No, they ain't so foolish—I guess they ain't! There ain't no place in New York you can get in an' out of without nobody knowin' it like Charlie's, if you know the way, an'"
"Aw, write de rest of it down in yer memoirs!" interposed the Pug impatiently—and moved toward the door. "It's all right, Shluker—all de way. Now, everybody beat it, an' get on de job. Nan, youse sticks wid Pinkie an' me."
Rhoda Gray, her mind in confusion, found herself being crowded hurriedly through the doorway by the three men. Still in a mentally confused condition, she found herself, a few minutes later—Shluker having parted company with them—walking along the street between Pinkie Bonn and the Pug. She was fighting desperately to obtain a grip upon herself. The information she had volunteered had had an effect diametrically opposite to that which she had intended. She seemed terribly impotent; as though she were being swept from her feet and borne onward by some swift and remorseless current, whether she would or no.
The Pug, in his curious whisper, was talking to her:
"Pinkie knows de way in. We don't want any row in dere, on account of Charlie. We ain't fer puttin' his place on de rough, an' gettin' him raided by de bulls. Charlie's all to de good. See? Well, dat's wot 'd
