The Washington times., 1930-11-14
N0w 60 On With the Story
CHAPTER u

desc, dose and dem guy. Tough.
iingodly, uncouth al1d-with a
heart as big as q Mulberry st.
watermelon. He was the giant
leader Of the River RatS-as
tinearthly q crew as was ever
gotten together on land or sea
or beneath the Brooklyn Bridge
vicious, ferocious and preda-
tory men captained by as tough
o roustabout as every kicked O
cobblestone on South Stand
o great guy at that.
Cyclone Tim was no ordinary
Kansas twister that tears the
seat out of mans pants. He
was a typhoon that tore q
mans insides out. No weapon
was too lowly Tor him. nor
were there any gentleman's
rules In the rougk1-alld- tumble
battle of his existence. He had
been cuffed in childhood by his
mother, beaten in youth by his
father, and clubbed into man
hood by the police. His follow
ers were loaferS, lusherS, jack
rollers, lumberjacks, Stevedores,
sailors who had deserted ship
and a mob of East River tougl1s
born or deserted to the garb-
age and muck of human pos
sessions along the water front.
Tommy Gillespie, greasy cap
over one eye and muscles bulg.
ing beneath Soiled dungareeS,
found Cyclone Tim in q foul
saloon on Water Street. just a
block from the river where his
fathers trailers were loaded
and emptied. He found Cyclone
Tim because he was looking for
him. It was no accident.
Meets Cyclone Tim
Tommy had been wised up to
the ways of waterfront eti-
uuette since his few days on
his fathers trucks. So he
didn't talk out of turn. But he
spotted the bulk and hulk Of
Cyclone Tim at the end of the
bar the minute he entered.
He called for a drink.
The bartender, with lower
Ing suspicious contenance, set
out the glass Of colored alky
without ever taking his eyes
of Tommy. He acted as though
he had a mind, to snatch it
back at the slightest move.
Tommy tossed his head, threw
d little laugh and sent the hell
sizzling liquid down his pipes.
He made a wry face, but he
grinned. wiped his mouth and
edged down the bar toward
Cyclnde Tim, half Of whose
dis lacement lay spraw1ed out
4 the liuuor-seared walnut.
Have a drink" he called to
Cyclone Tim, and waved his
arm with a sweep over the bar.
Don't drink" 'growled Cy-
clone Tim.
Watches Him
Tommy sidled closer. Cyclone
Tim watched him wari1y, his
great, catlike muscles barely
tightening.
Know Biff Glasson?" asked
Tommy looking him squarely in
the eye.
"Neyer heard o. him." mood
lily. Then, with sudden suspi-
cious verve: "S-a-y-watch tryin'
t. do-get info'mation?"
''I'm Tall Tom Gillespie's son
that Bridge Twisters' mob is
been hi-jackin' our trucks and
Chasin' off our n1en-I'n kick
In good dough to stop it,"
cyclone Tim never answered
o word. Never moved muscle
Of his walrus-like face.
GIVE heard O. youse," he
growled finally. He unlimbered
himself from the bar, leisurely,
dangerously. Tommy braced
himself. cyclone Tim drew up
to his full height, and then he
calmly looked Tommy over
from head to foot. Presently
he sank on the bar again, fold
ing his arms.
"I'll grab a drink on you"
he yielded.
A Fast Worker
The bartender, in whose eyes
s,AstInd terror and who had held
one hand beneath the bar at
The indications of q fight,
quickly set out two glasses, OF
the sallow foul-smelling stuff.
Then, without asking Tommy,
he planted out others for the
dropped figures along the bar
who sprang straight UP like
marionettes at the first whitf
Of booze, and he poured q drink
for himself.
Here's to all o. youse," bel
lowed cyclone Tim, making q
swift move with the glass which
was like a tfirnble In his hairy,
greasy paw. Various inarticu-
late sounds came from the
bozos.
Now, how much will you
pay?" whispered cyclone Tim,
moving the thick -bottomed glass
around absently on the wet
bar.
Il know you hate the soul O.
that Uiff ClassofA-