Having despatched the wire, he headed back toward De Lacey Street. It was Thursday night and he knew where to find the bulk of the man power of the neighborhood. For years they had used Pop Dillon's car as a club house in which to play poker and smoke and swap stories two or three nights a week. Thursday was always a big meeting night.
Sure enough, when he arrived in front of the Crosstown car barn, he saw a light burning within. He entered the barn, dark save for the beams shining from the old car. A long narrow table, made especially for the purpose by a De Lacey Street carpenter, one of the "club" members, stretched half the length of the car in the aisle. The seats on both sides were occupied by good solid citizens of New York of all ages from thirty-five up, huddled as tightly as they could be packed, all intent upon the game and clouding the atmosphere with the smoke from their pipes and cigars. Most of the occupants were elderly, and a beard seemed to be the most popular sign of membership. The low, confused murmur that always arises from a card game in which many people participate came to Speedy from the car interior.
As he mounted the step and walked into the car, Chris Walters with a triumphant shout and slapping of his neighbor's back won a well-played and difficult hand.
"You can't bluff me, Adam! You've got to have
