Five minutes went by after the shooting; ten minutes!—no one was in a hurry. At last a policeman arrived. He might have come sooner, but the New Brighton was a citadel of politics. Would you have had him lose his shield?
The policeman felt his official way into the barroom:—empty as a drum, dark as the inside of a cow!
He struck a match. By its pale and little light he made out the dead Harrington on the floor. Not a living soul, not even Goldie Cora!
Goldie Cora?
Said that practical damsel, when the matter was put up to her by Big Kitty, who being sentimental called Goldie Cora a quitter for leaving her dead love lying in his blood, “What good could I do? If I'd stuck I'd have got pinched; an' then—me in th' Tombs—I'd have stood a swell chance, I don't chink, of bein' at Bill's funeral.”