He wished he could get a copy of the paper. It might tell
him, he thought, something about himself. The boy was coming nearer,
and Rags stopped and leaned forward to listen.
"Extry! Extry!" shouted the newsboy, running. "Sun, World, and Mail.
Full account of the murder of Pike McGonegal by Ragsey Raegen."
The lights in the street seemed to flash up suddenly and grow dim
again, leaving Rags blind and dizzy.
"Stop," he yelled, "stop. Murdered, no, by God, no," he cried,
staggering half-way down the stairs; "stop, stop!" But no one heard
Rags, and the sound of his own voice halted him. He sank back weak and
sick upon the top step of the stairs and beat his hands together upon
his head.
"It's a lie, it's a lie," he whispered, thickly. "I struck him in
self-defence, s'help me. I struck him in self-defence. He drove me to
it. He pulled his gun on me. I done it in self-defence."
And then the whole appearance of the young tough changed, and the
terror and horror that had showed on his face turned to one of low
sharpness and evil cunning. His lips drew together tightly and he
breathed quickly through his nostrils, while his fingers locked and
unlocked around his knees.
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