sportin' editor I had told about Dummy's attempt to frame us. He looks sore.
"Say!" he growls, "what kind of a thing were you tryin' to put over on me with that double-crossin' pipe dream of yours? Of all the weird yarns I ever heard, that leads the league! You New York guys must think everybody that don't live within subway distance of Times Square is a hick, hey? So they was gonna job that man-eater of yours in the fourth round—just like a movie, eh? Villain in the cellar at the switchboard and everything else. Shame on you!" he says, waggin' his finger at me and pullin' out his watch. "I must have had a wisp of hay in my mouth when you come along. Let's see now, the slaughter started at 10 p. m. on the dot, end it's now pretty near twenty after—ten-nineteea, to be correct—so that your conspirator in the basement, not knowin' that the party's all over, wid be throwin' off that switch in about a minute—which would have been shortly after the start of the fatal fourth round. Then the fiendish Tiger Capat—"
He never finished the rest of that because, without no warning, every light in the place went out!
