Gord thought he had managed to sneak safely through the place of worst danger and was creeping along the front of a tenement, just a block away from the edge of the Headsmen’s territory, when a hand darted out of a doorway and grabbed him.

“Well, well! If it ain’t little Gord the Gutless! Where you sneakin’ off to this time, wee mouse?”

Gord’s heart sank as he looked from hand to arm to face. The broken-toothed grin that greeted his frightened gaze belonged to Snaggle. Full-grown and hulking, this stupid youth was the meanest of the gang members. As Gord tried to break away and run, Snaggle’s hand closed tightly on the collar of Gord’s shirt. While Gord hung helpless, his feet flailing several inches above the alley dirt, Snaggle frisked his person with his free hand.

“What the hell’s this, Gutless?” The lout held up the small knife, looking at its dulled and broken edge. “Planning murder, huh?” Laughing at his own witticism, Snaggle cast the blade aside and continued his search of Gord’s clothing. When his thick fingers found the two lumps that comprised Gord’s entire fortune, they froze for a second; then they clutched and tore. Gord looked down as his captor opened his fist. The drabs and a piece of his shirt were revealed. Snaggle abruptly straightened his other arm, and Gord flew sprawling into the alley, stunned.

“Listen, you little shit,” Snaggle said as he stepped to where his helpless victim lay, “holdin’ out on the Headsmen ain’t healthy!”

Gord, terrified, shut his eyes tight as Snaggle grabbed for him again. Then he felt himself being raised into the air, and he was sure the end had come. He felt the warmth of his own urine as his bladder, beyond his control, voided itself. The yellow trickle caught Snaggle’s attention and, ironically, saved Gord from a worse fate.