It was upon an occasion of this nature that an event occurred which was fated later to change the entire course of Billy Byrne's life.Upon the West Side the older gangs are jealous of the sanctity of their own territory.Outsiders do not trespass with impunity.From Halsted to Robey, and from Lake to Grand lay the broad hunting preserve of Kelly's gang, to which Billy had been almost born, one might say.
Kelly owned the feed-store back of which the gang had loafed for years, and though himself a respectable businessman his name had been attached to the pack of hoodlums who held forth at his back door as the easiest means of locating and identifying its motley members.
The police and citizenry of this great territory were the natural enemies and prey of Kelly's gang, but as the kings of old protected the deer of their great forests from poachers, so Kelly's gang felt it incumbent upon them to safeguard the lives and property which they considered theirs by divine right.It is doubtful that they thought of the matter in just this way, but the effect was the same.
And so it was that as Billy Byrne wended homeward alone in the wee hours of the morning after emptying the cash drawer of old Schneider's saloon and locking the weeping Schneider in his own ice box, he was deeply grieved and angered to see three rank outsiders from Twelfth Street beating Patrolman Stanley Lasky with his own baton, the while they simultaneously strove to kick in his ribs with their heavy boots.
Now Lasky was no friend of Billy Byrne; but the officer had been born and raised in the district and was attached to the Twenty-eighth Precinct Station on Lake Street near Ashland Avenue, and so was part and parcel of the natural possession of the gang.Billy felt that it was entirely ethical to beat up a cop, provided you confined your efforts to those of your own district; but for a bunch of yaps from south of Twelfth Street to attempt to pull off any such coarse work in his bailiwick--why it was unthinkable.
A hero and rescuer of lesser experience than Billy Byrne would have rushed melodramatically into the midst of the fray, and in all probability have had his face pushed completely through the back of his head, for the guys from Twelfth Street were not of the rah-rah-boy type of hoodlum --they were bad men, with an upper case B.So Billy crept stealthily along in the shadows until he was quite close to them, and behind them.On the way he had gathered up a cute little granite paving block, than which there is nothing in the world harder, not even a Twelfth Street skull.He was quite close now to one of the men--he who was wielding the officer's club to such excellent disadvantage to the officer --and then he raised the paving block only to lower it silently and suddenly upon the back of that unsuspecting head --"and then there were two."Before the man's companions realized what had happened Billy had possessed himself of the fallen club and struck one of them a blinding, staggering blow across the eyes.Then number three pulled his gun and fired point-blank at Billy.
The bullet tore through the mucker's left shoulder.It would have sent a more highly organized and nervously inclined man to the pavement; but Billy was neither highly organized nor nervously inclined, so that about the only immediate effect it had upon him was to make him mad--before he had been but peeved--peeved at the rank crust that had permitted these cheap-skates from south of Twelfth Street to work his territory.
Thoroughly aroused, Billy was a wonder.From a long line of burly ancestors he had inherited the physique of a prize bull.From earliest childhood he had fought, always unfairly, so that he knew all the tricks of street fighting.
During the past year there had been added to Billy's natural fighting ability and instinct a knowledge of the scientific end of the sport.The result was something appalling--to the gink from Twelfth Street.
Before he knew whether his shot had killed Billy his gun had been wrenched from his hand and flung across the street;he was down on the granite with a hand as hard as the paving block scrambling his facial attractions beyond hope of recall.
By this time Patrolman Lasky had staggered to his feet, and most opportunely at that, for the man whom Billy had dazed with the club was recovering.Lasky promptly put him to sleep with the butt of the gun that he had been unable to draw when first attacked, then he turned to assist Billy.
But it was not Billy who needed assistance--it was the gentleman from Bohemia.With difficulty Lasky dragged Billy from his prey.
"Leave enough of him for the inquest," pleaded Lasky.
When the wagon arrived Billy had disappeared, but Lasky had recognized him and thereafter the two had nodded pleasantly to each other upon such occasions as they chanced to meet upon the street.
