The nigger-heaven bouncer was making his way toward the disturbance.
"I'll meet you outside, after the last act," Martin whispered, the while his face showed undivided interest in the buck-and-wing dancing on the stage.
The bouncer glared and went away.
"Got a gang ?" he asked Cheese-Face, at the end of the act.
"Sure." "Then I got to get one," Martin announced.
Between the acts he mustered his following--three fellows he knew from the nail works, a railroad fireman, and half a dozen of the Boo Gang, along with as many more from the dread Eighteen-and-Market Gang.
When the theatre let out, the two gangs strung along inconspicuously on opposite sides of the street.

When they came to a quiet corner, they united and held a council of war.
"Eighth Street Bridge is the place," said a red-headed fellow belonging to Cheese-Face's Gang.

"You kin fight in the middle, under the electric light, an' whichever way the bulls come in we kin sneak the other way." "That's agreeable to me," Martin said, after consulting with the leaders of his own gang.
The Eighth Street Bridge, crossing an arm of San Antonio Estuary, was the length of three city blocks.

In the middle of the bridge, and at each end, were electric lights.

No policeman could pass those end-lights unseen.