The Definite Object

“That would all depend—on the peanut man,” she answered softly, “and you—you don’t talk or act a little bit like a real peanut man.”

“Well, could you stoop to love this peanut man just as he is, with all his faults and failures, love him enough to trust yourself to his keeping, to follow him into the unknown, to help him find that Beautiful City of Perhaps—could you, Hermione?” As he ended he rose to his feet, but swiftly, dexterously, she eluded him.

“Wait!” she pleaded, facing him across the table, “I—I want to talk to you—to ask you some questions, and I want you to be serious, please.”

“Solemn as sixty judges!” he nodded.

“Well, first, Mr. Geoffrey—why do you pretend to sell peanuts?”

“Pretend!” he repeated, trying to sound aggrieved.

“Oh, I’m not blind, Mr. Geoffrey.”

“No, indeed—I think your eyes are the most beau—”

“Oh, please, please be serious!”

“As a dozen owls!”

“I—I know,” she went on quickly, “I’m sure you haven’t always had to live in such—such places as Mulligan’s. I know you don’t belong here as I do. Is it necessity has driven you to live here or only—curiosity?”

“Well—er—perhaps a little of both,” he admitted.

“Then you’re not obliged to sell peanuts for a living?”

“‘Obliged’ is scarcely the word, perhaps; let us call it a peanut penchant, a hobby, a—”

“You are not quite so—poverty-stricken as you pretend?” Her voice was very soft and gentle, but she kept her head averted, also her foot was tapping nervously in its worn shoe.

“Oh, as to money,” he answered, “I have enough for my simple needs, but in every other sense I am a miserable pauper. You see, there are some things no money can buy, and they are generally the best things of life.”

“And so,” said she, interrupting him gently, “you come here to Mulligan’s, you deceive every one into thinking you are very poor, you make a pretence of selling peanuts and push a barrow through the streets—why?”

“First, because pushing a barrow is—er—very healthy exercise.”

“Yes, Mr. Geoffrey?” she said in the same soft voice.

“And second,” he continued, wishing he could see her face, “second, because I find it—er, well—highly amusing.”

“Amusing!” she cried, turning suddenly, her eyes very bright and her cheeks hot and anger-flushed. “Amusing!” she repeated, “ah, yes—that’s just it—it’s all only a joke to you, to be done with when it grows tiresome. But my life here—our life is very real—ah, terribly real, and has been—sordid sometimes. What is only sport to you for a little while is deadly earnest to me; you are only playing at poverty, but I must live it—”

“And thirdly,” he continued gently, “because I love you, Hermione!”

“Love me!” she repeated, shaking her head. “Ah, no, no—your world is not my world nor ever could be.”

“Why, then, your world shall be mine.”

“Yes, but for how long?” she demanded feverishly. “I wonder how long you could endure this world of mine? I have had to work and slave all my life, but you—look at your hands, so white and well-cared for—yours are not the hands of a worker!”

“No, I’m afraid they’re not!” he admitted a little ruefully.

“Now look at mine—see my fingers all roughened by my needle.”

“Such busy, capable hands!” said he, drawing a pace nearer, “hands always working for others, so strong to help the distressed. I love and honour them more just because of those work-roughened fingers.” As he spoke he reached out very suddenly, and clasping those slender hands, stooped and kissed them reverently. Now, glancing up, he beheld her red lips quivering while her eyes were suffused all at once, as, drooping her head, she strove to loose his hold.

“Let me go!” she whispered, “I—I—ah, let me go!”

“Hermione,” he breathed, “oh, Hermione, how beautiful you are!” But at this she cried out almost as if he had struck her and, wrenching her hands free, covered her face.

“Oh, God!—are all men the same?”

“Hermione,” he stammered, “Hermione—what do you mean?”

“I mean,” she answered, proud head up-flung, “there were always plenty of men to tell me that—when I was an office scrubwoman. Well?” she demanded fiercely, stung by something in his look, “what did you think I’d been? When a girl is left alone with a baby brother to care for, she can’t wait and pick and choose work that is nice and ladylike; she must take what comes along or starve—so I worked. I used to scrub floors and stairs in an office building. I was very young then, and Arthur hardly more than a baby, and it was either that or starvation or—” she flushed painfully, but her blue eyes met his regard unflinchingly; “anyway, I—preferred to be a scrubwoman. So now you know what I mean by your world not being my world, and I—I guess you see how—how impossible it all is.”

For a long moment was a silence wherein she stood turned from him, her trembling fingers busily folding and refolding a pleat in her apron while he stared down blindly at the floor.

“So you preferred the slavery of scrubbing floors, did you, Hermione?” he said at last.

“Of course!” she answered, without turning or lifting her heavy head.

“And that,” said he, his voice as placid, as serenely unhurried as usual, “and that is; just why all things are going to be possible to us—yes, even turning my wasted years to profit. Oh, my Hermione, help me to be worthy of you—teach me what a glorious thing life may be—”

“I?” she said wonderingly, her drooping head still averted, “but I am—”

“Just the one woman I want to be my own for ever and always, more—far more than I have ever wanted anything in my life.”

“But,” she whispered, “I am only—”

“The best, the noblest I have ever known.”

“But a—scrubwoman!”

“With dimples in her elbows, Hermione!” In one stride he was beside her, and she, because of his light tone, must turn at last to glance up at him half-fearfully; but those grey eyes were grave and reverent, the hands stretched out to her were strangely unsteady, and when he spoke again, his voice was placid no longer.

“Dear,” he said, leaning toward her, “from the very first I’ve been dying to have you in my arms, but now I—I dare not touch you unless you—will it so. Ah, don’t—don’t turn from me; let me have my answer—look up, Hermione!”

Slowly she obeyed, and beholding the shy languor of her eyes, the sweet hurry of her breathing, and all the sighing, trembling loveliness of her, he set his arms about her, drawing her close; and she, yielding to those compelling arms, gave herself to the passion of his embrace. And so he kissed her, her warm, soft-quivering mouth, her eyes, her silken hair, until she sighed and struggled in his clasp.

“My hair,” she whispered, “see—it’s all coming down!”

“Well, let it—I’d love to see it so, Hermione.”

“Should you? Why then—let me go,” she pleaded.

Reluctantly he loosed her, and standing well beyond his reach, she shook her shapely head, and down, down fell the heavy coils, past shoulder and waist and hip, rippling in shining splendour to her knees. Then, while he gazed spellbound by her loveliness she laughed a little unsteadily, and flushing beneath his look, turned and fled from him to the door; when he would have followed she stayed him.

“Please,” she said, tender-voiced, “I want to be alone—it is all so wonderful, I want to be alone and—think.”

“I may see you again to-night, Hermione? Dear—I must.”

“Why, if you must,” she said, “how can I—prevent you?”

Then, all at once, her cool, soft arms were about his neck, had drawn him down to meet her kiss, and—he was alone with the pastry board, the rolling-pin and the flour-dredger—but he saw them all through a golden glory, and when he somehow found himself out upon the dingy landing, the glory was all about him still.

CHAPTER XVII

HOW GEOFFREY RAVENSLEE MADE A DEAL IN REAL ESTATE

The morning sun blazed down, and Tenth Avenue was full of noise and dust and heat; children screamed and played and fought together, carts rumbled past, distant street cars clanged their bells, the sidewalks were full of the stir and bustle of Saturday; but Ravenslee went his way heedless of all this, even of the heat, for before his eyes was the vision of a maid’s shy loveliness, and he thrilled anew at the memory of two warm lips. Thus he strode unheeding through the jostling throng at a speed very different from his ordinary lounging gait. Very soon he came to a small drug-store, weather-beaten and grimy of exterior but very bright within, where everything seemed in a perpetual state of glitter, from the multitudinous array of bottles and glassware upon the shelves to the taps and knobs of the soda fountain. Yet nowhere was there anything quite so bright as the shrewd, twinkling eyes of the little grey-haired man who greeted Ravenslee with a cheery nod.

“Hot enough?” he enquired.

“Quite!” answered Ravenslee.

“Goin’ to be hotter.”

“Afraid so.”

“Rough on th’ kiddies, an’ ice goin’ up. Which reminds me I sent on the mixture you ordered for little Hazel Bowker.”

“Good,” nodded Ravenslee.

“And the pills to Mrs. Sims.”

“Good again.”

“An’ the sleeping-draught for old Martin Finlay.”

“Good once more.”

“Won’t last long, old Martin, I guess. Never been the same since little Maggie drowned herself, poor child. What d’ye want this morning?”

“First to pay for the medicine,” said Ravenslee, laying a five-dollar bill on the counter, “and then the use of your ‘phone.”

“Right there,” said the chemist, nodding toward a certain shady corner, where, remote from all intruding bustle, was a telephone booth into which Ravenslee stepped forthwith and where ensued the following one-sided conversation:

Ravenslee. “Hello!”

Telephone. “Buzz!”

Ravenslee. “Hello, Central, give me Thirty-three Wall, please.”

Telephone. “Ting-a-ling—buzz!”

Ravenslee. “Damn this ‘phone—what? No, I said Double-three Wall.”

Telephone. “Buzz! Ting! Zut!”

Ravenslee. “Sounded different, did it? Well, I want—”

Telephone. “Buzz! Zut! Ting!”

Ravenslee. “Thanks. Hello, that Thirty-three Wall? Dana and Anderson’s Office? Good! I want to speak with Mr. Anderson—say Mr. Ravenslee.”

Telephone. “Zing!”

Ravenslee. “Thanks. That you, Anderson?”

Telephone. “Pang!”

Ravenslee. “Thanks—very well! What the devil’s wrong with this instrument of torment—can you hear me?”

Telephone. “Crack!”

Ravenslee. “Good! Yes—that’s better! Now listen; I want you to do some business for me. No, I’m buying, not selling. I’m going into real estate. What, a bad speculation? Well, anyway, I’m buying tenement property in Tenth Avenue, known as Mulligan’s, I believe. Oh, you’ve heard of it, eh? Not in the market? Not for sale? Well, I’ll buy it. Oh, yes, you can—what d’ you suppose is his figure? So much? Phew! Oh, well, double it. No, I’m not mad, Anderson. No, nor drunk—I just happen to want Mulligan’s—and I’ll have it. When can you put the deal through? Oh, nonsense, make him sell at once—get him on the ‘phone. Oh, yes, he will, if you offer enough—Mulligan would sell his mother—at his own price. You quite understand—at once, mind! All right, good-by. No, I’m not mad—nor drunk, man; I haven’t tasted a cocktail for a month. Eh—go and get one? I will!”

So saying, Ravenslee hung up the receiver and hastened out of the stifling heat of the suffocating booth, mopping perspiring brow.

“You look kinder warm!” ventured the chemist.

“I feel it.”

“And it’s going to be warmer. Try an ice-cream soda—healthy and invigorating.”

“And better than any cocktail on such a day!”

“I guess! Take one?”

“Thank you, yes.”

So the bright-eyed chemist mixed the beverage and handed it over the counter.

“Chin-chin!” he nodded.

“Twice,” said Ravenslee, lifting the long glass. “To the Beautiful City of Perhaps!” and he drank deep.

“Say,” said the chemist, staring, “that sounds t’ me like a touch of the sun. Try a bottle of my summer mixture, good for sunstroke, heat-bumps, colic, spasms, and Hell’s Kitchen generally—try a bottle?”

“Thanks,” said Ravenslee, “I will.” And grimly pocketing the bottled panacea, he stepped out into the hot and noisy avenue.

CHAPTER XVIII

HOW SPIKE HEARKENED TO POISONOUS SUGGESTION AND SOAPY BEGAN TO WONDER

Spike was on his way from the office, very conscious of his new straw hat and immaculate collar; his erstwhile shabby suit had been cleaned and pressed by Hermione’s skilled and loving fingers, hence Spike turned now and then as he passed some shop window to observe the general effect with furtive eye; and stimulated by his unwontedly smart appearance, he whistled joyously as he betook himself homeward. Moreover in his breast pocket was his pay envelope, not very bulky to be sure, wherein lay his first week’s wages, and as often as he turned to glance at the tilt of the straw hat or heed the set of his tie, his hand must needs steal to this envelope to make sure of its safety. His fingers were so employed when he chanced to espy a certain article exposed for sale in an adjacent shop window; whereupon, envelope in hand, he incontinent entered and addressed the plump Semitic merchant in his usual easy manner.

“Greetings, Abe! I’ll take one o’ them hair-combs.”

“Hair-gombs?” nodded the merchant. “Vot kind?”

“What kind? Why, the best you got.”

“Ve got ‘em up to veefty dollars—”

“Come off it, Cain, come off—I ain’t purchasin’ a diamond aigrette to-day, it’s a lady’s hair-comb I want—good, but not too flossy-lookin’—savvy that? This’ll do, I guess—how much? Right there!” said Spike, flicking a bill upon the counter. “That’s it, stick it in a box—oh, never mind th’ wrappin’s. S’long, Daniel!”

With his purchase in his pocket, Spike strode out of the shop, whistling cheerily, but the merry notes ended very suddenly as he dodged back again, yet not quite quick enough, for a rough voice hailed him, hoarse and jovial.

“Why, hello, Kid, how goes it?” M’Ginnis’s heavy hand descended on his shrinking shoulder and next moment he was out on the sidewalk where Soapy lounged, a smouldering cigarette pendent from his thin, pallid lips as usual. And Soapy’s eyes, so bright between their narrowed, puffy lids, so old-seeming in the youthful oval of his pale face, were like his cigarette, in that they smouldered also.

“Holy smoke!” exclaimed M’Ginnis, surveying Spike up and down in mock amazement, “this ain’t you, Kid—no, this sure ain’t you. Looks all t’ th’ company-promoter, don’t he, Soapy?”

“‘S’ right, Kid, ‘s’ right!” nodded the pallid youth, his smouldering eyes always turning toward M’Ginnis.

“Say, now, Bud, quit your kiddin’!” said Spike petulantly.

“But, Gee whiz!” exclaimed M’Ginnis, tightening his grasp, “you sure are some class, Kid, in that stiff collar an’ sporty tie. How’s the stock market? Are ye a bull or a bear?”

“Ah, cut it out, Bud!” cried the lad, writhing.

“Right-o, Kid, right-o!” said M’Ginnis, loosing his hold. “You’re comin’ over t’ O’Rourke’s t’night, of course?”

“Why, no, Bud—I can’t.”

“Oh, t’ hell wid that—I got you all fixed up to go ten rounds wid Young Alf, th’ East Side Wonder—”

“What?” exclaimed Spike, his eyes bright and eager, “you got me a match wi’ Young Alf? Say, Bud—you ain’t stringing me, are ye?”

“Not much. I told you I’d get ye a real chance—”

“Why,” cried Spike, “if I was t’ lick Young Alf, I’d be in line t’ meet th’ top-notchers!”

“Sure—if you lick him!” nodded M’Ginnis grimly.

“Say,” said Spike, his face radiant, “I’ve just been waitin’ an’ waitin’ for a chance like this—a chance t’ show you an’ th’ bunch I can handle myself, an’ now”—he stopped all at once, and shaking his head gloomily, turned away. “I forgot, I—I can’t, Bud.”

“Aw, what’s bitin’ ye?”

“I can’t come t’night.”

“Won’t come, ye mean!”

“Can’t, Bud.”

“Why not?”

“I promised Hermy t’ quit fightin’—”

“Is that all? Hermy don’t have t’ know nothin’ about it. This is a swell chance for ye, Kid, the best you’ll ever get, so just skin over t’night an’ don’t say nothin’ t’ nobody.”

“I—can’t, Bud—that’s sure.”

“Goin’ t’ give me d’ throw-down, are ye?”

“I don’t mean it that ways, Bud, but I can’t break my promise t’ Hermy—”

“She’d never know.”

“She’d find out some ways; she always does, and I can’t lie t’ her.”

“So you won’t come, hey? We ain’t classy enough for ye these days, hey? I guess goin’ to an office every day is one thing an’ crackin’ a millionaire’s crib’s another.”

“Cheese it, Bud, cheese it!” gasped Spike, pale and trembling.

“Right-o, Kid!” nodded M’Ginnis, “but I’ve been wantin’ t’ know how ye made your get-away that night.”

“Oh, quit—quit talkin’ of it!” Spike panted. “I—I want t’ forget all about it. I been tryin’ t’ think it never happened.”

“Ah, but you know it did,” said M’Ginnis, “an’ I know it, an’ Soapy knows it did—don’t yer, Soapy?”

“‘S’ right!” nodded Soapy, his voice soft, his eyes hard and malevolent.

“So we kinder want t’ know,” continued M’Ginnis, heedless always of those baleful watching eyes, “we just want t’ get on t’ how you—”

“Oh, say—give it a rest!” cried Spike desperately. “Give it a rest, can’t ye?”

“Why, then, Kid, what about comin’ over t’ O’Rourke’s t’night?”

Spike wrung his hands. “If Hermy finds out, she’ll—cry, I guess—”

“Hermy!” growled M’Ginnis, black brows fierce and scowling, “a hell of a lot you care for Hermy, I—don’t think!”

“Say now, you Bud, whatcher mean?” demanded Spike, quivering with sudden anger.

“Just this, Kid—what kind of a brother are ye t’ go lettin’ that noo pal o’ yours—that guy you call Geoff—go sneaking round her morning, noon, an’ night?”

“You cut that out, Bud M’Ginnis. Geoff don’t! Geoff ain’t that kind.”

“He don’t, eh? Well, what about all this talk that’s goin’ on—about him an’ her, an’ her an’ him—eh?”

“What talk?” demanded Spike, suddenly troubled.

“Why, every one’s beginnin’ t’ notice as they’re always meetin’ on th’ stairs—an’ him goin’ into her flat, an’ them talkin’ an’ laughin’ together when you’re out o’ th’ way—ah,” growled M’Ginnis, between grinding white teeth, “an’ likely as not kissin’ an’ squeezin’ in corners—”

“That’s enough—that’s enough!” cried the boy, fronting M’Ginnis, fierce-eyed. “Nobody ain’t goin’ t’ speak about Hermy that way.”

“Y’ can’t help it, Kid. Here’s this guy Geoff, this pal o’ yours—been with her—in her flat with her, all th’ mornin’—ain’t he, Soapy?”

“‘S’ right, Kid!” nodded that pallid individual, the smouldering cigarette a-swing between pale lips; and, though he addressed Spike, his furtive eyes, watching aslant between narrowed lids, glittered to behold M’Ginnis’s scowling brow; also the wolverine mouth curled faintly, so that the pendulous cigarette stirred and quivered.

“Oh, I’m handin’ ye the straight goods, Kid,” M’Ginnis went on. “I’m puttin’ ye wise because you’re my pal, an’ because I’ve known Hermy an’ been kind o’ soft about her since we was kids.”

“Well, then, you know she—she ain’t that sort,” said Spike, his voice quavering oddly. “So—don’t you—say no more—see?”

“All right, Kid, all right—only I don’t like t’ see this pal o’ yours gettin’ in his dirty work behind your back. If anything happens—don’t blame me—”

“What—what you tryin’ t’ tell me—you Bud?” questioned Spike, between quivering lips.

“I’m tellin’ ye things are gettin’ too warm—oh, Hermy ain’t the icicle she tries t’ make out she is.”

“An’ I’m tellin’ you—you’re a liar, Bud M’Ginnis—a dirty liar!” cried the boy.

M’Ginnis’s bull neck swelled; between his thick, black brows a vein swelled and pulsed. Viewing this, Soapy’s glittering eyes blinked, and the pendulous cigarette quivered faintly again.

“Now by—” began M’Ginnis, lifting menacing fist; then his arm sank, and he shook his big, handsome head. “Oh, pshaw!” he exclaimed, “I guess you’re all worked up, Kid, so I ain’t takin’ no notice. But savvy this, Kid, if Hermy ain’t goin’ t’ marry me on th’ level, she ain’t goin’ t’ let this guy have her—the other way—not much! I guess you ain’t forgotten little Maggie Finlay? Well, watch out your pal Geoff don’t make Hermy go th’ same.”

Uttering a wild, inarticulate cry, the lad sprang—to be caught in M’Ginnis’s powerful grasp, but, even so, his fist grazed M’Ginnis’s full-lipped mouth. For a moment Spike strove desperately to reach Bud’s grim-smiling face until, finding his efforts vain, he ceased all at once, bowed his head upon his arms, and burst into a passion of bitter sobbing; then, with an agile twist, he wrenched himself free, and turning, sped away, heedless of his jaunty straw hat that had fallen and lay upon the dusty sidewalk. Languidly Soapy stooped and picked it up.

“His noo lid!” said he. “Only bought t’day, I reckon!”

“Gee!” exclaimed M’Ginnis, staring after Spike’s fleeing figure, already far away, “he sure was some peevish!”

“Some!” nodded Soapy. “If he’d happened t’ have a gun handy, here’s where you’d have cashed in for good, I reckon. Yes, Bud, you’d be deader ‘n’ mutton!” sighed Soapy, turning Spike’s hat around upon his finger. “You’d be as dead as—little Maggie Finlay you was mentionin’!”

M’Ginnis wheeled so suddenly upon the speaker that he took a long step backward, but he still spun Spike’s hat upon his finger, and the pendulous cigarette quivered quite noticeably. “Aw, quit it, Bud, quit it!” he sighed. “You know I ain’t th’ kind o’ guy it’s healthy to punch around promiscuous.”

“You mean if he’d missed, there was you, eh?”

“Well, I dunno, Bud, if it had been my sister—maybe—”

“Oh, I know the sort o’ dirty tyke you are, Soapy—but I’m awake—an’ I’ve got you, see? If anything was t’ happen t’ me, I’ve left papers—proofs—’n’ it ‘ud be the chair for yours—savvy?”

“Anyway, Bud, I—I haven’t got a sister,” said Soapy, juggling deftly with the hat. “But there’s one thing, Bud, th’ guy who gets actin’ Mr. Freshy with Hermy is sure goin’ to ante-up in kingdom come, if th’ Kid’s around.”

“You’re a dirty dog, Soapy, but you’ve got brains in your ugly dome, I guess you’re right about th’ Kid, an’ that gives me an almighty good idea!” And M’Ginnis walked on awhile, deep in thought; and ever as he went, so between those pale and puffy lids two malevolent eyes watched and watched him.

“No,” sighed Soapy at last, sliding a long, pale hand into the pocket of his smartly-tailored coat, “no, I ain’t got a sister, Bud, but there was little Maggie Finlay. I kind o’ used t’ think she was all t’ th’ harps an’ haloes. I used t’ kind o’ hope—but pshaw! she’s dead—ain’t she, Bud?”

“I guess so!” nodded M’Ginnis, yet deep in thought.

“An’ buried—ain’t she, Bud?”

“What th’ hell!” exclaimed Bud, turning to stare, “what’s bitin’ ye?”

“I’m wonderin’ ‘why’, an’ I’m likewise wonderin’ ‘who’, Bud. Maybe I’ll find out for sure some day. I’m—waitin’, Bud, waitin’. Goin’ around t’ O’Rourke’s, are ye? Oh, well, I guess I’ll hike along wid ye, Bud.”

CHAPTER XIX

IN WHICH THE POISON BEGINS TO WORK

Spike sat glowering at the newspaper, yet very conscious, none the less, that Hermione often turned to glance at him wistfully as she bustled to and fro; at last she spoke.

“Arthur, dear—why so gloomy?”

“I ain’t—I mean, I’m not.”

“You’re not sulking about anything?”

“No.”

“Then you’re sick.”

“I’m all right.”

“But you didn’t enjoy your dinner a little bit.”

“I—I wasn’t hungry, I guess,” said Spike, frowning down at the paper. But Hermione was beside him, her cool fingers caressing his curls.

“Boy, dear—what is it?”

“Say, Hermy, where’d you get them roses?” and he nodded to the flowers she had set among her shining hair.

“Oh, Mr. Geoffrey brought them.”

“Been here, has he?”

“Yes, he came in with Ann this morning—why?”

“Did he—did he stay long?”

“N-o, I don’t think so—why?”

“Comes round here pretty often, don’t he?”

“Why, you see, he’s your friend, dear, and we are very near neighbours.”

“Oh, I know all that, but—folks are beginning to—talk.”

Hermione’s smooth brows were wrinkled faintly and her caressing hand had fallen away.

“To talk!” she repeated, “you mean about—me?”

“Yes!” nodded Spike, avoiding her eyes, “about you and—him!”

“Well—let them!” she answered gently, “you and Ann are all I care about, so let them talk.”

“But I—I don’t like folks t’ talk about my sister, an’ it’s got t’ stop. You got t’ tell him so, or else I will. What’s he got t’ go buying ye flowers for, anyway?”

Hermione’s black brows knit in a sudden frown. “Arthur, don’t be silly!”

“Oh, I know you think I’m only a kid—but I ain’t—I’m not. If you can’t take care of—of yourself, I must and—”

“Arthur—stop!”

“Well, but what’s he always crawlin’ around here for?”

“He doesn’t crawl—he couldn’t,” she cried in sudden anger; then in gentler tones, “I don’t think you’d better say any more, or maybe I shall grow angry. If you have grown to think so—so badly of him, remember I’m your sister.”

“But you’re a girl, an’ he’s a man an’—”

“Stop it!” Hermione stamped her foot, and meeting her flashing glance, Spike wilted and—stopped it. So, while he glowered at the paper again, Hermione put away the dinner things, making more clatter about it than was usual, and turning now and then to glance at him from under her long lashes.

“Where did you meet M’Ginnis as you came home, Arthur?”

“At the corner of—say, who told you I met him?”

“You did.”

“I never said a word about meetin’ him.”

“No, but you’ve been telling me what he told you. Only M’Ginnis could be vile enough to dare say such things about me. Oh, Arthur, for shame—how can you listen to that brute beast—for shame!”

Now, meeting the virginal purity of those eyes, Spike felt his cheeks burn, and he wriggled in his chair.

“Bud only told me Geoff had been—been here,” he stammered, “and I guess it was the truth—I—I mean—”

“Oh, boy, for shame!” and turning about, she swept from the room, her head carried very high, leaving him crouched in his chair, his nervous fingers twisting and turning a small box in his pocket—the box that held the forgotten hair-comb. He was still sitting miserably thus when he heard a knock on the outer door and a moment later a woman’s voice, querulous and high-pitched.

“Oh, Miss Hermy, my Martin’s very bad t’night, an’ I got t’ go out, an’ I can’t leave him alone; would ye mind comin’ down an’ sittin’ with him for a bit?”

“Why, of course I will.”

“Y’ see, since he had th’ stroke, he’s sorrered for our little Maggie—he was hard on her, y’ see, an’ since she—she died—he’s been grievin’ for her. Had himself laid in her little room—seemed to comfort him somehow. But to-day, when he heard we had to leave because th’ rent was rose, it nigh broke his poor heart. An’ I got to go out, an’ I can’t leave him alone, so—if y’ wouldn’t mind, Miss Hermy—”

“Just a moment—I’ll come right now.” As she spoke, Hermione reentered the kitchen, untying her apron as she came. Spike sat watching, waiting, yearning for a word, but without even a glance Hermione turned and left him. When he was alone, he started to his feet and tearing the box from his pocket dashed it fiercely to the floor; then as suddenly picked it up, and approaching the open window, drew back his hand to hurl it out and so stood, staring into the face that had risen to view beyond the window ledge, a round face with two very round eyes, a round button of a nose, and a wide mouth just now up-curving in a grin.

“Hey, you, Larry, what you hangin’ around here for?” demanded Spike, slipping the box into his pocket again. “What you doin’ on our fire escape, hey?”

“Brought back yer roof!” replied the lad.

“Well, where is it?”

“Here it is.” And climbing astride the window sill, Larry handed in the jaunty straw.

“Where’d you find it?”

“Bud give it me, ‘n’ say—”

“All right,” nodded Spike, dusting the straw tenderly with a handkerchief. “Now git, I wanter be alone.”

“But, say, Kid, Bud says I was ter say as he’s sorry for what he said, ‘n’ say, he says you’d better be gettin’ over t’ O’Rourke’s, ‘n’ say—”

“I ain’t comin’!”

“But say, you’re t’ fight Young Alf, ‘n’ say—”

“I ain’t comin’!”

“But say, dere’s a lot of our money on ye—I got two plunks meself, ‘n’ say, you just gotter fight anyway. Bud says so—”

“I can’t help what Bud says; I ain’t comin’.”

“Not comin’!” exclaimed Larry, his eyes rounder than ever.

“No!”

Larry’s wide mouth curved in a slow grin, and he nodded his close-cropped head; said he:

“Say, Kiddo, you know Young Alf’s a punishin’ fighter, I guess; you know as nobody’s never stopped him yet, don’t yer; you know as you’re givin’ him six pounds—say, you ain’t—scared, are ye?”

“Scared?” repeated Spike, frowning. “Do I look like I was scared? You know there ain’t any guy I’m scared of—but I promised Hermy—”

“Pip-pip!” grinned Larry. “Say, if you don’t turn up t’night, d’ye know what d’ bunch’ll say? Dey’ll say you’re a—quitter!”

“Well, don’t you say it, that’s all!” said Spike, laying aside his hat and clenching his fists.

“Not me!” grinned Larry. “There’ll be plenty to do that, I guess—dey’d call it after ye in d’ streets—dey’ll give ye th’ ha! ha! Dey’ll say Hermy Chesterton’s brother’s a quitter—a quitter!”

For a long moment Spike stood with bent head and hands tightly clenched, then crossing to the sideboard, he picked up his shabby cap.

“Who’s in my corner?”

“Now you’re talkin’, Kiddo; I know as you—”

“Who’s in my corner?”

“Bud an’ Lefty, ‘n’ say, I guess they can handle you all right, eh? ‘N’ say, come on, let’s cop a sneak before any one butts in—d’ fire escape for ours, eh?”

“Sure!” said Spike, climbing through the window. “Oh, there ain’t nobody goin’ t’ call Hermy Chesterton’s brother a quitter.”

“You bet there ain’t!” grinned Larry, “come on, Kid!”

CHAPTER XX

OF AN EXPEDITION BY NIGHT

“Why, Mr. Geoffrey, what you settin’ here in the dark for?”

“Is it dark, Mrs. Trapes?”

“My land! Can’t you see as it’s too dark t’ see, and—oh, shucks, Mr. Geoffrey!”

“Certainly, Mrs. Trapes! But can’t you see that the whole world—my world, anyway—is full of a refulgent glory, a magic light where nothing mean or sordid can possibly be, a light that my eyes never saw till now nor hoped to see, a radiance that may never fail, I hope—a—er—”

“Oh, go on, Mr. Geoffrey, go on. Only I guess I’ll light the gas jest the same, if you don’t mind!” Which Mrs. Trapes did forthwith. “But what was you a-doin’ of all alone in the dark?”

“Glorying in life, Mrs. Trapes, and praising the good God for health and strength to enjoy it and the fulness thereof—”

“‘Fulness thereof’ meanin’ jest what, Mr. Geoffrey?”

“The most beautiful thing in a beautiful world, Mrs. Trapes.”

“An’ that’s Hermy, I s’pose. An’ all that talk o’ glory an’ radiance an’ magic light means as you’ve been an’ spoke, I guess?”

“It does.”

“An’ what did she say?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothin’?”

“Not with her lips, but—”

“Oh—her eyes, was it? Mr. Geoffrey, I’ll tell you what—a girl may look ‘yes’ with her eyes a whole week an’ say ‘no’ with her mouth jest once and mean ‘no’—when it’s to a peanut man—Lordy Lord! what’s that?” And Mrs. Trapes jumped as a hand rapped softly on the door, and stared horrified to see a human head protrude itself into the room while a voice said:

“Da Signorina she out, so me come tell-a you piece-a-da-noos—”

“Why, if it ain’t that blessed guinney! Go away—what d’ye want?”

Hereupon Tony flashed his white teeth, and opening the door, bowed with his inimitable grace, grew solemn, tapped his nose, winked knowingly, and laid finger to lip.

“My land!” said Mrs. Trapes, staring. “What’s the matter with the Eyetalian iji’t now?”

“Spike—he go make-a-da-fight!” whispered Tony hoarsely.

“Eh—Arthur fightin’—where?”

“He go make-a-da-box—he drink-a-da-booze, den he walk-a—so! Den da Signorina she-a-cry—”

“Oh!” exclaimed Mrs. Trapes, “you mean as that b’y’s off boxin’ again?”

“Si, si—he go make-a-da-box-fight.”

“Is he over at O’Rourke’s, Tony?” enquired Ravenslee, sitting upright.

“I bet-a-my-life, yes—”

“Oh, Mr. Geoffrey!” exclaimed Mrs. Trapes, clasping bony hands. “If they bring him home drunk like they did last time!”

“They shan’t do that, Mrs. Trapes. Don’t worry, I’ll go and fetch him,” said Ravenslee, getting to his feet.

“Fetch him? From O’Rourke’s? Are ye crazy? You’d get half-killed like as not. Oh, they’re a bad, ugly lot down there!”

“I feel rather ugly myself,” said Ravenslee, looking around for the shabby hat; “anyway, I’m going to see.”

“Why, then, if you’re goin’ t’ venture among that lot, you take this with ye, Mr. Geoffrey,” and she thrust the poker into his hand. “You’ll sure need it—ah, do now!” But Ravenslee laughed and set it aside. “You’d better take it, Mr. Geoffrey; fists is fists, but gimme a poker—every time! A poker ain’t t’ be sneezed at! What, goin’—an’ empty-‘anded? Mr. Geoffrey, I’m surprised at you. Think of Hermy!”

“That’s just what I am doing.”

“Well, s’posin’ they hurt you! What’ll Hermy do?”

“You think she’d mind, then, though I’m—only a peanut man?”

“Even a peanut man’s a feller creatur, ain’t he—an’ Hermy’s ‘eart is very tender an’—oh, shucks, Mr. Geoffrey, I guess you know she’d jest be crazy if you was hurt bad!”

“Why, then,” said Ravenslee, smiling and taking up the battered hat, “I’ll take great care of myself—trust me!”

“Then good-by, Mr. Geoffrey, good-by and—the good Lord go with you.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Trapes,” said Ravenslee and followed Tony out upon the stair. Upon one of the many landings the young Italian paused.

“Me put-a-you wise, Geoff; you savvy where-a to find Spike, now me go back t’ my lil Pietro, yes. S’ long, pal, ‘n’ good-a luck!”

Ravenslee hastened on down-stairs, returning neighbourly nods and greetings as he went, but staying for none, and so, crossing the court, turned into the avenue. On the corner he beheld the Spider, hard at work on his eternal chewing gum, cap drawn low and hands in pockets. Seeing Ravenslee, he nodded and lurched forward.

“What’s doin’, Geoff?” he enquired.

“I’m off to O’Rourke’s—coming?”

“Not much! An’ say, ‘t ain’t worth your trouble—I ain’t fightin’. Nawthin’ but a lot o’ fifth-raters.”

“I’m going over to fetch Spike.”

“How much?” exclaimed the Spider, his square jaws immobile from sheer astonishment. “Say, you ain’t crazy, are ye—I mean you ain’t dippy or cracked in the dome, are ye? Because d’ Kid’s goin’ ten rounds with Young Alf, d’ East Side Wonder, t’night, see?”

“Not if I can help it, Spider.”

“Aw—come off, bo! D’ye think Bud’ll let him go?”

“I shan’t ask Bud—or any one else.”

“Meanin’ as you’ll walk right in on Bud’s tough bunch an’ cop out d’ Kid on y’r lonesome—eh?”

“I shall try.”

“Then you sure are crazy; if y’r dome ain’t cracked yet, it’s sure goin’ t’ be. Why, Bud ‘n’ his crowd’ll soak you good ‘n’ plenty ‘n’ chuck ye out again quicker’n ye went in. They will sure, bo—if you go—”

“I’m wondering if you’ll come along and help?” said Ravenslee lazily.

“Me? Not so’s you could notice it. I ain’t huntin’ that sort o’ trouble.”

“Oh, well, if you think you’d—er—better not, I’ll go alone.”

“What, yer goin’, are ye?”

“Of course! You see, Spike is my friend; consequently his trouble is my trouble. Good night, Spider, and whatever else you do, be sure to—er—take good care of yourself!” And Ravenslee smiled and turned away; but he had not gone six paces before the Spider was at his elbow.

“Say, bo,” said he, “I don’t like the way you smile, but you talk so soft an’ pretty, I guess I’ll jest have t’ come along t’ gather up what they leave of ye.”

“Spider,” said Ravenslee, “shake!” The Spider obeyed, somewhat shamefacedly to be sure.

“It looks like two domes bein’ cracked ‘stead o’ one, an’ all along o’ that fool-kid!” Having said which, he lurched on beside Ravenslee, chewing voraciously.

“How you goin’ t’ work it?” he enquired suddenly.

“I don’t know yet.”

“Hully Chee! You’ve sure gotcher nerve along. There’s some o’ the toughest guys in little Manhattan Village at O’Rourke’s dump t’night, keepin’ th’ ring an’ fair achin’ for trouble.”

“We must dodge ‘em, Spider.”

“S’pose we can’t?”

“Then we must trust our luck, and I’ve got a hunch we shall get Spike away somehow before Mr. Flowers dopes him or makes him drunk; anyway we’ll try. The dressing rooms are behind the annex, aren’t they?”

“Know the place, do ye?”

“I’ve looked it over. We can get in behind the annex, can’t we?”

“In?” repeated the Spider, smiling grimly. “Oh, we’ll get in all right; what gets my goat is how we’re goin’ t’ get out again. You sure are a bird for takin’ chances, Geoff.”

“Life is made up of chances, Spider, and there are two kinds of men—those who take them joyfully and those who don’t.”

“Well, say, you can scratch me on the joyful business. I’m th’ guy as only takes chances he’s paid t’ take.”

“How much are you getting on this job, Spider?”

“Oh—well—I mean—say, what’s th’ time, bo?”

“Five minutes after eight—why?”

“I guess d’ Kid’s in th’ ring, then. There’s a full card t’night, an’ he’s scheduled for eight sharp, so I reckon he’s fightin’ now—an’ good luck to him!” By this time they had reached that dark and quiet neighbourhood where stood O’Rourke’s saloon. But to-night the big annex glared with light, and the air about it was full of a dull, hoarse, insistent clamour that swelled all at once to a chorus of discordant shrieks and frenzied cries.

“Ah!” quoth the Spider sagely, “hark to ‘em howl! That means some guy’s gettin’ his, alright. Listen to ‘em; they love t’ get blood for their entrance money, an’ they’re sure gettin’ it. Some one’s bein’ knocked out—come on!”

It was a dark night, for there was no moon and the stars were hidden; thus, as Ravenslee followed the Spider, he found himself stumbling over the uneven ground of a vacant lot, a lonely place beyond which lay the distant river. At last they reached various outbuildings, looming up ugly and ungainly in the dimness.

“Say, bo,” said the Spider, stopping suddenly at a small and narrow door, “you’d best wait here and lemme go first.”

“No, we’ll go together.”

“Right-o, only be ready to make a quick get-away!”

So saying, the Spider opened the door and, closely followed by Ravenslee, stepped into a dimly-lit passage thick with the blue vapour of cigars and cigarettes. It was a long, narrow corridor, bare and uncarpeted, seeming to run the length of the building; on one hand was a row of dingy windows and on the other were several doors, from behind which came the sound of many voices that talked and sang and swore together, a very babel.

At the end of this passage was yet another door which gave upon a small room that contained a rickety sofa, a chair, and a battered desk; a kerosene lamp suspended against the wall burned dimly, and it was into this chamber that the Spider ushered Ravenslee somewhat hastily; the Spider’s eyes were very bright, and he chewed rather more fiercely than usual.

“Bo,” said he, “this place ain’t exactly a bed o’ roses for a strange guy like you. Y’ see, this is Bud’s own stampin’-ground, an’ the whole bunch is here t’night, and most of ‘em are heeled. Soapy an’ Bud always tote guns, I know. So I guess you’d better mark time here a bit while I chase around an’ locate th’ Kid. If any one asks what you’re doin’ around here, say as you come in with me. But, bo”—and here the Spider laid an impressive hand on Ravenslee’s arm—”if you should happen t’ see Bud, well, don’t stop to look twice but beat it—let it be th’ door or winder for yours—only—beat it!”

“Oh, why?”

“Well, I know Bud’s got it in fer you; I heard him say—oh, well, if his gun should go off—accidental-like, this place ain’t exactly Broadway or Fifth Av’noo, bo—see?”

“I see!” nodded Ravenslee.

“Hold on!” said Spider, and crossing to the window, he unlatched it stealthily and lifted it high, “if I ain’t back inside of ten minutes, bo, nip out through here and hike; wait for me at the lamp-post across the lot over there—it’ll be safer. D’ye get me?”

“I do!” nodded Ravenslee.

“I guess you’d be less of a fool if you was to get out now an’ wait—outside!” Spider suggested.

Ravenslee shook his head.

“I’ll wait here,” said he, “there are times when I can be as big a fool as the next, Spider, and this is one of them.”

“That’s so!” nodded the Spider, and chewing viciously, he turned and was gone, to be hailed a few minutes later in uproarious greeting by many discordant voices which died slowly to a droning hum above which came sounds more distant, shouts and cheers from the auditorium.

Left alone, Ravenslee looked about him, and then espied a newspaper that lay upon the desk. Idly taking it up, his gaze was attracted by these words, printed in large black letters:

NOTORIOUS CRIMINAL RUN TO EARTH JACOB HEINE THE GUN-MAN ARRESTED IN JERSEY CITY

Below in small type he read this:

Jacob Heine, believed to be the perpetrator of several mysterious shooting affrays, and member of a dangerous West Side gang, was arrested to-day.

The light being dim, Ravenslee drew closer to the lamp, and standing thus against the light, his face was in shadow—also his long figure was silhouetted upon the opposite wall, plain to be seen by any one opening the door. Suddenly, as he stood with head bent above the paper, this door opened suddenly, and M’Ginnis entered; he also held a paper, and now he spoke without troubling to lift his scowling gaze from the printed column he was scanning:

“That you, Lefty? Here’s a hell of a mix-up—that dog-gone fool Heine’s got himself pinched—and in Jersey City too! I told him t’ stay around here till things was quiet! It’s goin’ t’ be a hell of a job t’ fix things for him over there—’t ain’t like N’ York. But we got t’ fix things for him or chance him squealing on th’ rest of us, but what beats me is—”

M’Ginnis’s teeth clicked together, and the paper tore suddenly between his hands as, glancing up at last, he beheld two keen, grey eyes that watched him and a mouth, grim and close-lipped, that curled in the smile Spider didn’t like.

For a long, tense moment they stood motionless, eye to eye, then, reaching behind him, M’Ginnis locked the door, and drawing out the key, thrust it into his pocket.

“So—I got ye at last—have I?” said he slowly.

“And I’ve got you,” said Ravenslee pleasantly; “we seem to have got each other, don’t we?”

“See here, you,” said M’Ginnis, his massive shoulders squared, his big chin viciously outthrust, “you’re goin’ t’ leave Mulligan’s, see?”

“Am I?” said Ravenslee, lounging upon a corner of the battered desk.

“You sure are,” nodded M’Ginnis. “Hell’s Kitchen ain’t big enough for you an’ me, I guess; you’re goin’ because I say so, an’ you’re goin’ t’night!”

“You surprise me!” said Ravenslee sleepily.

“You’re goin’ t’ quit Hell’s Kitchen for good and—you ain’t comin’ back!”

“You amaze me!” and Ravenslee yawned behind his hand.

“An’ now you’re goin’ t’ listen why an’ wherefore—if you can keep awake a minute!”

“I’ll try, Mr. Flowers, I’ll try.”

M’Ginnis thrust clenched hands into his pockets and surveyed Ravenslee with scornful eyes—his lounging figure and stooping shoulders, his long, white hands and general listless air.

“God!” he exclaimed, “that she should trouble t’ look twice at such a nancy-boy!” and he spat, loud and contemptuously.

“Almost think you’re trying to be rude, Mr. Flowers.”

“Aw—I couldn’t be, to a—thing like you! An’ see here—me name’s M’Ginnis!”

“But then,” sighed Ravenslee, “I prefer to call you Flowers—a fair name for a foul thing—”

M’Ginnis made a swift step forward and halted, hard-breathing and menacing.

“How much?” he demanded.

“Fair name for a very foul thing, Mr. Flowers,” repeated Ravenslee, glancing up at him from under slumberous, drooping lids—”anyway, Flowers you will remain!”

As they stared again, eye to eye, M’Ginnis edged nearer and nearer, head thrust forward, until Ravenslee could see the cords that writhed and swelled in his big throat, and he hitched forward a languid shoulder. “Don’t come any nearer, Flowers,” said he, “and don’t stick out your jaw like that—don’t do it; I might be tempted to try to—er—hit it!”

“What—you?” said M’Ginnis, and laughed hoarsely, while Ravenslee yawned again.

“An’ now, Mr. Butt-in, if you’re still awake—listen here. I guess it’s about time you stopped foolin’ around Hermy Chesterton—an’ you’re goin’ t’ quit—see!” Ravenslee’s eyes flashed suddenly, then drooped as M’Ginnis continued: “So you’re goin’ t’ sit down right here, an’ you’re goin’ t’ write a nice little note of farewell, an’ you’re goin’ t’ tell her as you love her an’ leave her because I say so—see? Ah!” he cried, suddenly hoarse and anger-choked, “d’ ye think I’ll let Hermy look at a thing like you—do ye?—do ye?” and he waited. Ravenslee sat utterly still, and when at last he spoke his voice sounded even more gentle than before.

“My good Flowers, there is just one thing you shall not do, and that is, speak her name in my hearing. You’re not fit to, and, Mr. Flowers, I’ll not permit it.”

“Is that so?” snarled M’Ginnis, “well, then, listen some more. I know as you’re always hangin’ around her flat, and if Hermy don’t care about losing her good name—”

Even as Ravenslee’s long arm shot out, M’Ginnis side-stepped the blow, and Ravenslee found himself staring into the muzzle of a revolver.

“Ah—I thought so!” he breathed, and shrank away.

“Kind of alters things, don’t it?” enquired M’Ginnis, hoarse and jeering. “Well, if you don’t want it to go off, sit down an’ write Hermy as pretty a little note as you can—no, shut that window first.”

Silent and speechless, Ravenslee crossed to the window and drew down the sash, in doing which he noticed a dark something that crouched beneath the sill.

“An’ now,” said M’Ginnis, leaning against a corner of the desk, “sit down here, nice an’ close, an’ write that letter—there’s pen an’ ink an’ paper—an’ quick about it or by—”

M’Ginnis sprang up and turned as the glass of the window splintered to fragments, and, almost with the crash, Ravenslee leapt—a fierce twist, a vicious wrench, and the deadly weapon had changed hands.

“Lucky it didn’t go off,” said Ravenslee, smiling grimly at the revolver he held, “others might have heard, and, Mr. Flowers, I want to be alone with you just a little longer. Of course, I might shoot you for the murderous beast you are, or I might walk you over to the nearest police depot for the crook I think you are—but—oh, well, of late I’ve been yearning to get my hands on you and so”—Ravenslee turned and pitched the revolver through the broken window. But, almost as the weapon left his hand, M’Ginnis was upon him, and, reeling from the blow, Ravenslee staggered blindly across the room, till stayed by the wall, and sank there, crouched and groaning, his face hidden in his hands.

With a cry hoarse and fierce, M’Ginnis followed and stooped, eager to make an end—stooped to be met by two fierce hands, sure hands and strong, that grasped his silken neckerchief as this crouching figure rose suddenly erect. So for a wild, panting moment they grappled, swaying grimly to and fro, while ever the silken neckerchief was twisted tight and tighter. Choking now, M’Ginnis felt fingers on his naked throat, iron fingers that clutched cruelly, and in this painful grip was whirled, choking, against the wall and thence borne down and down. And now M’Ginnis, lying helpless across his opponent’s knee, stared up into a face pale but grimly joyous, lips that curled back from gnashing white teeth—eyes that glared merciless. So Ravenslee bent M’Ginnis back across his knee and choked him there awhile, then suddenly relaxed his hold and let M’Ginnis sink, gasping, to the floor.

“A little—rough, Mr. Flowers,” he panted, “a trifle—rough with you—I fear—but I want you—to know that you—shall not utter—her name—in my presence. Now the key—I prefer door to window—the key, Mr. Flowers—ah, here it is!” So saying, Ravenslee stood upright, and wiping blood and sweat from him with his sleeve, turned to the door. “One other thing, Mr. Flowers; have the goodness to take off your neckerchief next time, or I—may strangle you outright.”

Halfway down the passage Ravenslee turned to see Murder close on his heels. Once he smote and twice, but nothing might stay that bull-like rush and, locked in a desperate clinch, he was borne back and back, their trampling lost in the universal din about them, as reeling, staggering, they crashed out through wrecked and splintered door and, still locked together, were swallowed in the night beyond.

Thus the Spider, crouching in the dark beneath the broken window with Spike beside him, was presently aware of the sickening sounds of furious struggling close at hand, and of a hoarse, panting voice that cursed in fierce triumph—a voice that ended all at once in a ghastly strangling choke; and recognising this voice, the Spider hunched his great shoulders and bore Spike to a remote spot where stood a solitary lamp-post. Here he waited, calm-eyed and chewing placidly, one arm about the fretful Spike.

Presently Ravenslee joined them; the shabby hat was gone, and there was a smear of blood upon his cheek, also he laboured in his breathing, but his eyes were joyous.

“Bo, what about Bud?”

“Oh, he’s lying around somewhere.”

“Hully Chee—d’ ye mean—”

“He tried gouging first, but I expected that; then he tried to throttle me, but I throttled a little harder. He’s an ugly customer, as you said, but”—Ravenslee laughed and glanced at his bloody knuckles—”I don’t think he’ll be keen to rough it with me again just yet.”

“Bo, I guess you can be pretty ugly too—say, when you laugh that way I feel—kind of sorry for Bud.”

“Why, what’s wrong with Spike?”

“Dunno—I guess they’ve been slinging dope into him. And he’s copped it pretty bad from Young Alf too—look at that eye!”

“Spike!” said Ravenslee, shaking him, “Spike, what is it? Buck up, old fellow!” But Spike only stared dazedly and moaned.

“It’s dope all right,” nodded the Spider, “or else Bud’s mixed th’ drinks on him.”

“Damn him!” said Ravenslee softly. “I wish I’d throttled a little harder!”

“I guess you give Bud all he needs for the present,” said Spider grimly, “anyway, I’m goin’ t’ see. The Kid ain’t hurt none. Get him home t’ bed, an’ he’ll be all right s’long, long, Geoff.”

“Good night, Spider, and—thank you. Oh, by the way, who’s Heine?”

“Heine’s a Deutscher, Geoff. Heine’s about as clean as dirt an’ as straight as a corkscrew; why, he’d shoot his own mother if y’ paid him, like he did—but say, what d’ you know about him, anyway?”

“Well, for one thing, I know he’s been arrested in Jersey City—”

“Heine? Pinched? Say, bo, what yer givin’ us—who says so?”

“Bud, and—”

But the Spider, waiting for no more, had turned about and was running back across the open lot.

CHAPTER XXI

HOW M’GINNIS THREATENED AND—WENT

“Mr. Geoffrey, prayer is a wonderful prop to a anxious ‘eart!” said Mrs. Trapes, leaning over the banisters to greet him as he ascended. “Mr. Geoffrey, my hands has been lifted in prayer for ye this night as so did me behoove, and here you are safe back with—that b’y. A prayer prayed proper, and prayed by them as ain’t plaguein’ the Lord constant about their souls an’ other diseases, is always dooly regarded. Yes, sir, a occasional petition is always heard and worketh wonders as the—my land, Mr. Geoffrey, look at your face!”

“I know, Mrs. Trapes. Has she come in yet?”

“Not yet—an’ glad I am. You’re all bleedin’—stoop your head a bit—there!” and very tenderly she staunched the cut below the curly hair with an apron clean and spotless as usual. “And the b’y—lord, what’s come to him?”

“A black eye—two, I’m afraid. Anyhow, I’ll look after him and get him into bed before she comes; can you keep her away till I’ve done so?”

“I’ll try. Poor lad!” she sighed, touching Spike’s drooping head with bony fingers, “if she wasn’t his sister, I’d be sorry for him!”

So Ravenslee took Spike in hand, bathing his bruised and battered features and setting ice water to his puffy lips, which the lad gulped thirstily. Thereafter he revived quickly but grew only the more morose and sulky.

“All right,” he muttered, “I’ll go t’ bed, only—leave me, see!”

“Can’t I help you?”

“No—you lemme alone. Oh, I know—you think I’m soused, but I ain’t; I—I’m not drunk, I tell ye—I wish I was. I ain’t no kid, so lemme alone—an’ I ain’t drunk. What if me legs is shaky? So ‘ud yours be if you’d got—what I got. It was dat last swing t’ d’ jaw as done me—but I ain’t drunk ‘n’ I ain’t a kid t’ be undressed—so chase ye’self an’ lemme alone!”

“All right, Spike—only get to bed like a good chap before your sister comes.”

“You leave my sister alone; she ain’t—that kind, an’ she ain’t fer you, anyway.”

“That will do, Arthur—get into bed! I’ll give you five minutes!” So saying, Ravenslee turned away, but, as he closed the door, his quick ear detected the clink of glass, and turning, he saw Spike draw a small flask from his pocket.

“Give me that stuff, old fellow.”

“Oh, you can’t con me! I ain’t a kid, so you lemme alone!” and Spike raised the flask to his lips, but in that instant it was snatched away. Spike staggered back to the wall and leaned there, passing his hand to and fro across his brow as though dazed, then stumbled out into the room beyond.

“Gimme it, Geoff, gimme it!” he panted, “you won’t keep it, no, no—Bud slipped it to me after I come to. Gimme it, Geoff. I want t’ forget—so be a sport an’ give it me—you will, won’t ye?”

Ravenslee shook his head, whereat the boy broke out more passionately:

“Oh—don’t ye see, Geoff—can’t ye understand? I—I was knocked out t’night—I took th’ count! I—I’m done for, I had me chance, an’ I didn’t make good! I—didn’t—make good!” As he spoke, the lad hid his bruised face within his hands, while great sobs shook him.

“Why, Spike! Why, Arthur, old chap—never mind—”

“Gimme th’ bottle, Geoff! Be a pal an’ gimme th’ stuff—I want t’ forget!”

“This wouldn’t help you.”

“Give it me, d’ ye hear—I want it—I’ll have it, anyway—I’ll—” Spike’s voice failed, and cowering back, he sank into a chair at sight of her who stood within the doorway so very silent and pale of lip.

“Ah, don’t, Hermy—don’t look at me like that,” he whispered. “Your eyes hurt me! I ain’t drunk—this time!”

“Oh, boy!” she sighed, “oh, boy—after all your promises!”

Spike rose with hands stretched out appealingly, but even so, he swayed slightly, and seeing this, she shivered.

“Is it th’ fightin’ you mean, Hermy? Why, I did it all for you, Hermy, all for you—I wanted t’ be a champion ‘cause all champions are rich. I wanted t’ make you a real lady—t’ take you away from Mulligan’s—but now—I’m only—a ‘has-been.’ I’ve lost me chance—oh, Hermy, I’m done for; I—oh, Geoff, I—think I’ll—go to bed.”

So Ravenslee set down the flask, and, clasping an arm about Spike’s swaying form, led him from the room, while Hermione stood rigid and watched them go. But when the door had closed behind them, she bowed her head upon her hands and sobbed miserably, until, spying the half-emptied flask through her tears, she sprang forward, and snatching it from the table, dashed it passionately to the floor.

“Oh, dear God of Heaven!” she whispered, sinking to her knees, “not that way—ah, save him from that—keep him from treading that path!” With head bowed upon her folded hands she knelt thus awhile until a sound in the passage aroused her, and rising to her feet, she turned and confronted Bud M’Ginnis.

He stood upon the threshold, and though his glowing, eager eyes dwelt yearningly upon her beauty, he made no motion to enter the room. Upon one cheek the skin was torn and grazed from nose to ear, and upon his powerful throat were vivid marks that showed fierce and red, and these seemed to worry him, for even while he stared upon her loveliness, his hand stole up to his neck, and he touched these glowing blotches gently with his fingers.

“God, Hermy,” said he at last, “you get more beautiful every day!”

She was silent, but reading the fierce scorn in her eyes, he laughed softly and leaned nearer. “Some day, Hermy, you’ll be—all mine! Oh, I can wait; there’s others, an’ you’re worth waitin’ for, I guess. But some day you’ll come t’ me—you shall—you must! Meantime there’s others, but some day it’ll be you an’ you only—when you’re my wife. Ah, marry me, Hermy; I could give you all you want, an’ there’d never be any one else for me—then!”

Her eyes still met his unflinchingly, only she drew away from his nearness, shivering a little; seeing which, he frowned and clenched one hand, for the other had wandered up to his throat again.

“Won’t ye speak t’ me?” he demanded savagely, then shrugging his great shoulders, he continued in gentler tones: “I ain’t here t’ quarrel, Hermy; I only came t’ see if th’ Kid got home all right.” Hermione’s firm, red lips remained tightly closed. “Did he?” Hermione slowly inclined her head.

“Say now, Hermy,” he went on, and his voice grew almost wheedling, “there was a guy here the other night—a stranger, I guess—one o’ these tired, sleepy guys—one o’ the reg’lar soft-talkin’ nancy-boys—who is he?” Hermione only sighed wearily, whereat his voice grew hoarse with passion, and he questioned her fiercely: “Who is he, eh—who is he? What was he doin’ around here, anyway? Well, can’t ye talk? Can’t ye speak?”

Hermione only looked at him, and before those calm, fearless eyes, M’Ginnis burned in a wild yet impotent rage.

“Won’t talk, hey?” he questioned between grinding teeth. “Well, now, see here, Hermy. If you let this guy come any love business with you behind me back, it’ll be his finish—an’ he can blame you for it! An’ see here again—watch out for young Arthur. Oh!” he cried, seeing her flinch, “you think you’ve got the Kid tied to ye, you think you’ve got him, I guess—but you ain’t! I’ve got him—right here!” and holding out his hand, M’Ginnis slowly clenched it into a fist. “I’ve got th’ Kid, see—an’ he’s goin’ th’ way I want him—he’s got to, see?”

“Ah!” she cried, her scorn and fearless pride shattered to trembling pleading at last. “What do you mean—oh, what do you mean?”

“I mean as I want ye, an’ I’m goin’ to have ye!” he answered. “I mean that instead of ‘no’ you’re goin’ t’ give me ‘yes’—for th’ Kid’s sake!”

“What do you—mean?” she said again between quivering lips, her eyes full of a growing terror.

“Mean?” he continued relentlessly, viewing her trembling loveliness with hungry eyes. “Well—that’s what I mean!” and he pointed to the broken flask upon the floor. “If you want t’ see it in his face more an’ more, if you want t’ smell it in his breath—say ‘No!’ If you want t’ see his hands begin t’ shake, if you want t’ hear his foot come stumbling up th’ stair—say ‘No!’ I guess you remember what it’s like—you’ve seen it all before. Well, if ye want Arthur t’ grow into what his drunken father was before him—say ‘No!’”

“Go away!” she moaned, “go away!”

“Oh, I’ll go, but first I’ll tell you this—”

“I think not, Mr. Flowers—no, I’m sure you won’t!”

Ravenslee’s voice was soft and pleasant as usual, but before the burning ferocity of his eyes, the merciless line of that grim, implacable mouth, before all the hush and deadly purpose of him, the loud hectoring of M’Ginnis seemed a thing of no account. Beholding his pale, set face Hermione, sighing deeply, shrank away; even M’Ginnis blenched as, very slowly, Ravenslee approached him, speaking softly the while.

“Get out, Mr. Flowers, get out! Don’t say another word—no, not one, if only because of ‘that dog-gone fool Heine!’ Now go, or so help me God, this time—I’ll kill you!”

Hermione leaned her trembling body against the table for support. And yet—could it be fear that had waked this new glory in her eyes, had brought this glowing colour to her cheek, had made her sweet breath pant and hurry so—fear?

M’Ginnis stood rigid, watching Ravenslee advance; suddenly he tried to speak yet uttered no word; he raised a fumbling hand to his bruised and swollen throat, striving again for speech but choked instead, and, uttering a sound, hoarse and inarticulate, he swung upon his heel and strode blindly away.

Then Ravenslee turned to find Hermione sunk down beside the table, her burning face hidden between her arms, her betraying eyes fast shut.

“You are tired,” he said gently, “that damned—er—I should say Mr. Flowers and—other unpleasant things have upset you, haven’t they?”

Hermione made a motion of assent, and Ravenslee continued, softer than before:

“I wanted you to make up your mind to come away to-night, but—I can’t ask you now, can I? It—it wouldn’t be—er—the thing, would it?”

Hermione didn’t answer or lift her head and, stooping above her, he saw how she was trembling; but her eyes were still fast shut.

“You—you’re not afraid—of me, are you, Hermione?”

“No.”

“And you’re not—crying, are you?”

“No.”

“Then I’d—better go, hadn’t I? To Mrs. Trapes and supper—stewed beef, I think, with—er—carrots and onions—”

Her head was still bowed, and his tone was so light, his voice so lazy, how was she to know that his hands were quivering or see how the passion of his yearning was shaking him, fighting for utterance against his iron will? How was she to know anything of all this until, swiftly, lightly, he stooped and kissed the shining glory of her hair? In a while she raised her head, but then—she was alone.

CHAPTER XXII

TELLS OF AN EARLY MORNING VISIT AND A WARNING

Ravenslee dreamed that he was in a wood—with Hermione, of course. She came to him through the leafy twilight, all aglow with youth and love, eager to give herself to his embrace. And from her eyes love looked at him unashamed, love touched him in her soft caressing hands, came to him in the passionate caress of her scarlet mouth, love cradled him in the clasp of her white arms. And the sun, peeping down inquisitively through the leaves, showed all the beauty of her and made a rippling splendour of her hair.

But now the woodpecker began a tap-tapping soft and insistent somewhere out of sight, a small noise yet disturbing, that followed them wheresoever they went. Thus they wandered, close entwined, but ever the wood grew darker until they came at last to a mighty tree whose sombre, far-flung branches shut out the kindly sun. And lo! within this gloom the woodpecker was before them—a most persistent bird, this, tap-tapping louder than ever, whereat Hermione, seized of sudden terror, struggled in his embrace and, pointing upward, cried aloud, and was gone from him. Then, looking where she had pointed, he beheld no woodpecker, but the hated face of Bud M’Ginnis—

Ravenslee blinked drowsily at the wall where purple roses bloomed, at the fly-blown text in the tarnished frame with its notable legend:

LOVE ONE ANOTHER

and sighed. But in his waking ears was the tap of the woodpecker, loud and persistent as ever! Wherefore he started, stared, sat up suddenly and, glancing toward the window, beheld a large cap and a pair of shoulders he thought he recognised.

“Why, Spider!” he exclaimed, “what the—”

“Sufferin’ Mike!” sighed the Spider plaintively, “here I’ve been knockin’ at your all-fired winder—knockin’ an’ knockin’, an’ here you’ve been snorin’ and snorin’.”

“No, did I snore, Spider?”

“Bo, you sure are a bird for snorin’.”

“Damn it!” said Ravenslee, frowning, “I must break myself of it.”

“Thinkin’ of gettin’ married, bo?”

“Married? What the—”

“She’ll soon get useter it, I guess—they all do!” said the unabashed Spider. “Anyway, if you didn’t snore exactly, you sure had a strangle hold on the snooze business, all right. Here’s me crawled out o’ me downy little cot t’ put ye wise t’ Bud’s little game, an’ here’s you diggin’ into the feathers t’ beat th’ band!”

“But the window was open; why didn’t you come in right away?”

“Not much, bo, I ain’t the kind o’ fool as makes a habit o’ wakin’ your kind out o’ their beauty sleep sudden, no more I ain’t a guy as takes liberties in strange bedrooms, see?”

“Well, come in, Spider—sit on the bed; I haven’t a chair to offer. By the way, I have to thank you—”

“Whaffor?”

“Breaking that window—”

“Oh, I guess it wasn’t a bad wheeze.”

“It gave me the chance I wanted, Spider.”

“Which you sure gripped with both mitts, bo!”

“Now have a cigar—in that coat pocket—”

“Not me, Geoff! Smoke’s bad for th’ wind, that’s why I’ve took t’ gum.” Saying which, the Spider proceeded to take out and open a packet of that necessary adjunct, and having posted it into his mouth piece by piece, fell to grim mastication.

“Bo,” said he suddenly, “you come away without your roof last night.”

“Eh?” said Ravenslee, blinking drowsily, “my what?”

“Your lid, bo.”

“You mean my old hat?”

“That’s what I’m tryin’ t’ tell you—an’ say, that sure is the hardest bean cover I ever spotted; made of iron, is it? Where’d you find it?”

“At some dim and distant day it originated in England, I believe.”

“Well, that lid would turn a poleaxe, sure; that’s why I brought it back—it’s out on the fire escape now.”

“Very kind of you, Spider, but—”

“Bo, you’re goin’ t’ need that hat an’ a soot o’ tin underwear from now on unless—well, unless you pack y’r trunk an’ clear out o’ Hell’s Kitchen on th’ jump.”

“Why so?”

“Well, you certainly handed Bud a whole lot more ‘n he’s ever had before, an’ it’s a full house to a pair o’ dooces he ain’t lookin’ for no more from you just yet. But then, Bud ain’t no pet lamb nor yet a peace conference, an’ it’s four aces to a bum-flush he means t’ get back at ye some way—an’ get ye good!”

“Oh?” said Ravenslee, yawning.

“And oh some more!” nodded the Spider; “it’s sure comin’ t’ you. When I got back las’ night, there’s Bud settin’ against th’ wall lookin’ like an exhibit from the morgue, fightin’ for breath t’ cuss you with. ‘N’ say, you sure had done him up some, which I wasn’t nowise sad or peeved about, no, sir! Me an’ Bud’s never been what you might call real kittenish an’ playful together. But it seems you ain’t only soaked an’ throttled him good an’ plenty, but he’s gone an’ let out t’ you about that guy Heine—an’ consequently you’ve gotter be kept from opening y’r mouth—see? Consequently it’s you for a sudden an’ hasty hike.”

“Oh?” said Ravenslee again.

“Twice!” nodded the Spider, “with a F an’ a L thrown in—that’s what you’ll be, Geoff, if you try t’ buck Bud an’ th’ gang. So here I’ve shinnied up y’r fire escape to put ye wise an’ lend a hand to make your swift get-away.”

Ravenslee sighed and settled his head more comfortably on his pillow. “You think I ought to go, Spider?”

“I don’t think—I know! Your number’s up, Geoff—it’s you against th’ field, an’, bo—they’re some field!”

“You think there’s real danger, then?” enquired Ravenslee, staring up at the fly-blown text with shining eyes.

“As real as—death, bo!”

“Not so long ago I regarded Death as my best friend—”

“How much?” demanded the Spider, suspending mastication.

“Nothing, Spider, a mere passing thought.”

“Well, I’m tellin’ ye they’ll get ye sure—it’ll be th’ water or a forty-four bullet, or a blackjack or a knife—but you’ll get it one way or another!”

“Sounds cheering!”

“An’ it ain’t over-pleasant t’ be sandbagged.”

“No, Spider.”

“Nor t’ feel a lead pipe wrapped round th’ back o’ y’r bean.”

“No indeed, Spider.”

“Nor yet t’ feel a stiletta diggin’ between y’r shoulders or over y’r collar bone.”

“Worst of all, Spider.”

“Well, you’d best pack y’r little trunk an’ fade away, bo!” Ravenslee sat up suddenly and looked at the Spider with eyes very bright and wide.

“Not for all the gangs that ever ganged!” said he softly.

“Eh?” exclaimed the Spider, staring, “what’s yer game?”

“I’m going to try to buck this gang clean out of existence.”

“You are, eh?”

“I am.”

“Bo,” sighed the Spider, shaking his head, “you ain’t a ordinary fool—you’re a damned fool!”

“And you’re going to help me, Spider!”

“Not me, bo, not me—I’m only just an ordinary fool!”

“Well, we’ll let it go at that!” said Ravenslee, and lying back, he yawned again.

“Don’t do that, bo, don’t do that!” exclaimed the Spider. “I’m thinkin’ what you’ll look like after you’ve been floatin’ around in th’ river—a week, say! You’d best get out o’ Hell’s Kitchen, bo—don’t stop to ask where to, but—go there.”

“My Spider,” said Ravenslee, shaking his head, “in Hell’s Kitchen I should have to leave all that makes life worth while, so—I shall stay, of course, and chance the—er—river and things.”

“Well, I guess it’s your trouble, not mine.”

“But I want it to be yours too, Spider. You see, I’m counting on you to help me smash this gang.”

“Bo, it looks like you’re goin’ t’ do a hell of a lot o’ countin’—an’ then some more, before you count me in on this fool game. Say”—he paused to stare at Ravenslee, keen-eyed and with jaws clamped rigid—”you ain’t a fly-cop—one o’ these sleuthy gum-shoe men, are ye?”

“No.”

“Well, you ain’t one o’ these fool amateur guys doin’ the dare-devil detective act like you read about in th’ magazines, are ye?”

“No more than you are one of these dirty gang loafers you hear about around O’Rourke’s—and that’s why you’re going to help me root ‘em out.”

“Sufferin’ Pete!” sighed the Spider, “here I keep tellin’ you I ain’t on in this act, an’ here you keep on ringin’ me in frequent all the same.”

“Because you are a man, Spider Connolly, and white all through, and because to smash up this gang is going to be man’s work.”

“Well, it sure ain’t no job for Sophy the Satin-skinned Show-girl—nor yet for two nice, quiet little fellers like you an’ me.”

“We shan’t be quite alone, Spider.”

“That’s some comfortin’, anyway!”

“There will be Joe Madden, for one.”

“Joe Mad—” The Spider very nearly bolted his wad of chewing gum, then he rose and stood staring at Ravenslee, very round of eye. “So you know Joe Madden, the best all-round champion that ever happened, eh?”

“I box with him every day.”

“Hully Chee!” exclaimed the Spider, and chewed fervently in silent astonishment. Suddenly he lifted his head and stood as one that hearkens to distant sounds, and crossing stealthily to the window, climbed out.

“What’s the matter?”

“Mother Trapes, bo. She’s just rollin’ out o’ th’ feathers, an’ she’s quite enough for me—always has me fazed to a frazzle. If she caught me here it ‘ud be th’ gimlet eye for mine—so here’s where I fade away.”

“Anyway, come and have tea here with me to-night, Spider, unless you think I am—er—too dangerous to visit just now on account of M’Ginnis—”

“Dangerous?” repeated the Spider, scowling, “bo, when I get a call t’ free food with a guy like you, danger gets lost in th’ shuffle an’ forgotten—I’ll be there. Now here’s your bean cover—catch! S’ long!” And nodding, Spider promptly vanished down the fire escape.

CHAPTER XXIII

CHIEFLY CONCERNING A LETTER

“Sunday,” said Mrs. Trapes sententiously, “Sunday is a holy day t’ some folks an’ a holiday for other folks, but t’ folks like me an’ Hermy it sure ain’t no day of rest an’ gladness—like the hymn book says.”

“Isn’t it?” said Ravenslee, pushing away his coffee cup and glancing toward the loud-ticking clock upon the sideboard.

“It sure ain’t!” nodded Mrs. Trapes, quick to note the look. “Hermy an’ me ain’t much given to Sunday observance, Mr. Geoffrey. Y’ see, there’s always meals t’ be cooked an’ washin’ up t’ be done, an’ clo’es t’ be mended p’raps. I’ve darned many a ‘eartfelt prayer into a wore-out pair o’ stockin’s before now an’ offered up many a petition t’ the Throne o’ grace with my scrubbin’ brush sloshin’ over the floor. Anyway, Hermy ‘n’ me ain’t never had much time for church-goin’ or prayer meetin’s or mindin’ our souls in our best frocks an’ bonnets—no, sir! We jest have t’ get on with our work—sewin’ an’ cookin’ an’ washin’—mindin’ the welfare of other folks’ bodies. So while them as has time an’ inclination sing their praises t’ the Lord on their knees, Hermy an’ me take out our praises in work, an’ have t’ leave our souls t’ God an’—oh, well, I guess he’ll take care of ‘em all right—don’t y’ think?”

“I certainly do!” nodded Ravenslee.

“O’ course, my soul ain’t all it should be—a bit stained here an’ there, p’raps—a bit th’ worse for wear, Mr. Geoffrey, but Hermy’s—well, there, I guess it’s jest as sweet as a flower still, an’ white—as white as that tablecloth. An’ talkin’ about her soul—what about her body, Mr. Geoffrey?”

Ravenslee started. “Her body?” said he, staring. “Well, since you ask, I should say it is like her soul—very sweet and white and—”

“Sure!” nodded Mrs. Trapes, “but, bein’ only flesh an’ blood after all—bein’ only miserable clay like yours an’ mine, Mr. Geoffrey, it’ll always need food t’ nourish it, clo’es t’ keep it warm, an’ a roof t’ shelter it. Well, if she was t’ be s’ mad as t’ marry a peanut man, what about food an’ clo’es an’ a roof?”

“I think they could be managed, Mrs. Trapes.”

“What—out o’ peanuts?”

“No—er—the fact is, I’ve given ‘em up.”

Mrs. Trapes sniffed. “Y’ don’t say!” she remarked drily. “Think o’ that, now!”

“The fact is, Mrs. Trapes, I—well, suppose I were to confess to you that I’m not quite so poor as I seem—what should you say?”

“Why, I should say as I knew that about three weeks ago, Mr. Geoffrey.”

“Oh, did you?” said Ravenslee, staring. “How in the world did you find out?”

“Why, Mr. Geoffrey, I’ll tell ye how. I got eyes an’ I got ears, an’ sometimes I can see a bit with my eyes an’ hear with my ears—that’s how! Oh, I’ve watched ye, Mr. Geoffrey—I’ve watched ye careful because—well, because I sure love Hermy, an’ ‘t would jest break my ‘eart t’ see her fallin’ in love with a rogue!”

“So you think—that she is—falling in love, then?” enquired Ravenslee slowly.

“Well, Hermy’s Hermy, an’ she’s wrote you two letters to my knowin’—”

“No, only one, Mrs. Trapes.”

“Now Hermy ain’t the kind o’ girl t’ write twice to a man unless—”

“But she has only written me one letter, Mrs. Trapes—the one she left with you last week.”

“Oh, well—here’s the other!” said Mrs. Trapes, laying before him an envelope addressed in the handwriting he had come to know so well.

“Why didn’t you give it to me before?” he enquired.

“Her orders, Mr. Geoffrey.”

“Orders?”

“Orders!” nodded Mrs. Trapes. “She come in here last night an’ give it me after you was gone t’ bed. ‘Ann dear,’ she says, ‘don’t let him have it till half after ten t’ morrer,’ she says. An’ it’s nearly eleven now—so there’s y’r letter!”

“But,” said Ravenslee, “why on earth—”

“P’raps th’ letter’ll tell you, Mr. Geoffrey; s’pose you read it while I clear away your breakfast things!”

Hereupon Ravenslee opened the letter and read these words:

My dear,

It would be my joy to trust myself to you utterly, to go with you to the world’s end if you would have it so. Only I’m afraid that I am not quite what you would have me. I’m afraid that I might sometimes do things that would remind you that I had been only a scrubwoman. I’m afraid that some day you might regret. Were I to answer you now, I should answer you selfishly—so, please, you must give me time to think, for both our sakes. Love has never come near me before, and now I am a little afraid, for love is not little and tender and babyish, but great and strong and very fierce and masterful—that is why I am afraid of it. So I must go away from you, from the sound of your voice, the touch of your hand—to think it all out. My work will take me to Englewood to-morrow, and I want you to wait for your answer until I come back, for then I shall have decided one way or the other. But in Englewood the memory of your words will be with me still—oh, did you mean all, quite all you said, and did you say quite all you meant to say—did you? Did you? For indeed it has seemed to me that if you really meant all you said you might have said a little more—just a little more. This is a dreadfully long letter and very badly expressed, I know, but I dare not read it through. But what I have written is written from my heart.

Hermione.

P.S. I shall be in Englewood three whole days.

“Will strawberry jam an’ angel cake an’ a bunch or so o’ water cress be enough, Mr. Geoffrey?”

Ravenslee sat staring down at the letter, rubbing his square, fresh-shaven chin as one very much at a loss.

“‘Might have said a little more—just a little more,’” he muttered, his gaze focussed upon a certain line.

“Will water cress an’ angel cake an’ a pot o’ strawberry jam soot, Mr. Geoffrey?”

“Now I wonder what the dickens she can mean?” mused Ravenslee.

“She means jest strawberry jam an’ angel cake an’ water cress, fer tea—fer your visitors,” said Mrs. Trapes, with a patient sigh.

“Visitors!” repeated Ravenslee, glancing up. “Why, yes, they’ll be here about four o’clock.”

“An’ will water cress an’ angel cake an’—”

“Quite enough! Certainly! Admirable!” exclaimed Ravenslee. “But what beats me,” he continued, staring down at the letter again, “is what she can mean by writing this.”

“Not knowin’ what she’s wrote, I can’t say.”

“Mrs. Trapes, I know you are Hermione’s best and staunchest friend, and lately I have ventured to hope you are mine too. As such, I want you to read this letter—see if you can explain it!”

So Mrs. Trapes took the letter; and when she had read it through, folded it together with hands very gentle and reverent and stood awhile staring out into the sunlit court.

“My land!” she said at last, her harsh voice grown almost soft, “love’s a wonderful thing, I reckon. No wonder your eyes shine so. Yes, love’s a great an’ wonderful thing—my land!”

“But can you explain,” said Ravenslee, as he took back the letter, “can you tell me what she means by—”

“Shucks, Mr. Geoffrey! That sure don’t want no explainin’. When you said all you did say to her, did y’ say anything about ‘wife’ or ‘marriage’?”

“Why, of course I did!”

“Sure?”

“Yes—er—that is—I think so.”

“Not sure then?”

“Well, I may have done so—I must have done so, but really I—er—forget—”

“Forget!” Mrs. Trapes snorted. “Now look-a-here, Mr. Geoffrey, what d’ ye want with Hermy; is it a wife you’re after or only—”

“Mrs. Trapes!” Ravenslee was upon his feet, and before the sudden glare in his eyes Mrs. Trapes gaped and for once fell silent. “Mrs. Trapes,” said he, still frowning a little, “really you—you almost—made me angry.”

“My land!” said she, “I’m kind o’ glad I didn’t—quite!” and her sniff was eloquent.

“You see,” he went on, glancing down at the letter again, “I’ve learned to love and reverence her so much that your suggestion—hurt rather!”

“Why, then, Mr. Geoffrey, I’m sorry. But if your love is so big an’ true as all that—if you want her t’ be a wife t’ you—why in the ‘tarnal didn’t ye speak out an’ tell her so?”

“I’ll go and tell her so this minute.”

“Y’ can’t! She’s gone t’ Bronx Park with that b’y, ‘n’ won’t be back all day.”

“Damn!” exclaimed Ravenslee.

“Sure!” nodded Mrs. Trapes. “Keep on, it’ll do ye good. But anyway, what y’ got t’ say’ll keep, I guess—it’ll gush out all the stronger fer bein’ bottled up a day or two.”

“I can write!” he suggested.

“You can—but you won’t—you’ll tell her with your two lips—a woman likes it better spoke—if spoke proper—I should! With arms entwined an’ eyes lookin’ into eyes an’—oh, shucks! Will angel cake an’ strawberry jam—”

“They’ll be ample, and—thank you, dear Mrs. Trapes!”

CHAPTER XXIV

HOW THE OLD UN AND CERTAIN OTHERS HAD TEA

“Old Un,” said Joe, halting his aged companion in the middle of the second flight to wag a portentous finger, “Old Un, mind this now—if there should ‘appen to be cake for tea, don’t go makin’ a ancient beast of yourself with it—no slippin’ lumps of it into your pocket on the sly, mind, because if I ketch ye at it—”

“Don’t be ‘arsh, Joe, don’t be ‘arsh! Cake comes soft t’ me pore old teef.”

“An’ mind this again—if there should be any jam about, no stickin’ ye wicked old fingers into it an’ lickin’ ‘em behind my back.”

“You lemme an’ the jam alone, Joe; it’s a free country, ain’t it?—very well, then!”

“Free country be blowed! You mind what I say, you venerable old bag of iniquity, you!”

“‘Niquity yerself!” snarled the Old Un, and snapping bony finger and thumb under Joe’s massive chin, turned and went on up the stairs, his smart straw hat cocked at a defiant angle, his brilliant shoes creaking loudly at every step.

“Oh, Gorramighty!” he panted, halting suddenly on the fifth landing to get his breath, “these perishin’ stairs ‘as ketched my wind, Joe; it’s worse ‘n th’ treadmill! Is there many more of ‘em?”

“Only six flights!” nodded Joe grimly.

“Six!” wailed the Old Un. “Lord—it’ll be the death o’ me!”

“Well, it’s about time you was dead,” nodded Joe.

“Dead ye’self!” snarled the old man. “I’m a better figger of a man than ever you was—”

“An’ you would come,” continued Joe serenely, as he deftly resettled the old fellow’s sporty bow-tie. “You fair plagued me to bring ye along, didn’t ye, old packet o’ vindictiveness?”

“Well, an’ here I am, Joe, an’ here I mean t’ stay—no more climbin’ fer me; I’m tired, me lad, tired!” Saying which, the Old Un spread his handkerchief on a convenient stair and proceeded to seat himself thereon with due regard for his immaculately creased trousers.

“Well,” growled Joe, “of all the perverse old raspers that ever I did see—”

“That’s enough, Joe, that’s enough!” exclaimed the Old Un, fanning himself with his rakish hat. “Jest bend down and flick the dust off me shoes with your wipe, like a good lad, will ye? That’s the worst o’ these ‘ere patent leathers; they looks well, but they sure ketches th’ dust, Joe, they ketches the dust oncommon bad. So jest give ‘em a flick over—me pore old back’s too stiff t’ let me reach ‘em, what wi’ me rheumatiz an’ a floatin’ kidney or so—”

“Kidneys!” snarled Joe, drawing out a large bandanna handkerchief and polishing the old man’s natty shoes until they shone resplendent. “What’s the matter with ye blessed kidneys now?”

“Don’t I tell ye—they floats, Joe, they floats!”

“Float!” growled Joe. “Float—where to?”

“‘Ere, there, an’ everywhere, Joe, I can feel ‘em! They’re always a-gettin’ theirselves all mixed up any’ow. Oh, it’s an ‘orrible complaint to ‘ave kidneys like mine as gets theirselves lost.”

“Wish they’d lose you along with ‘em!” growled Joe, shaking the dust from his handkerchief.

“Joe,” said the old man, putting on his hat and blinking up at him beneath its jaunty brim, “Joe, sometimes I fair despise ye!”

“Well, despise away,” nodded Joe, “only get up—stand up on them doddering old pins o’ yourn.”

“Not me!” declared the Old Un, “I ain’t goin’ to climb no more o’ these perishin’ stairs—no, not for you nor nobody. ‘Ere I am, me lad, an’ ‘ere I sits till you give me a piggy-back up to the top—me bein’ a pore old cove with rheumatiz. I demands it—”

“You’ll what?” growled Joe, hard-breathing and indignant.

“Demand it, Joe—a pore old feller wi’ kidneys—an’ every other ailment as flesh is hair to—a piggy-back, Joe—a piggy-back!”

Without another word Joe stooped, and lifting the old man beneath one arm, bore him up the stairs regardless of his croaking protestations and fierce invective.

“I said a piggy-back—oh, you blightin’ perisher, I said a piggy-back,” he snarled, his resplendent shoes twinkling in futile kicks. “Oh, Joe, there’s times when I fair ‘ates ye!”

Thus, despite virulent curses and feeble kickings, Joe bore him on and up until, as he climbed the last flight, he was arrested by an exclamation from above, and glancing upward, beheld a tall, sharp-featured woman who leaned over the rail.

“Oh, land o’ my fathers!” exclaimed Mrs. Trapes, “what’s the matter—what you got there? Who are ye?”

“The matter, ma’am,” answered Joe, for by this time the Old Un had cursed himself quite breathless, “the matter’s contrariness; what I ‘ave under my arm, ma’am, is a old reprobate, and I’m Joe Madden, ma’am, come to take tea with my—come, as you might say, a visiting to Mr. Geoffrey; p’raps you’ll—”

“Don’t ‘eed ‘im, ma’am—never ‘eed ‘im!” croaked the Old Un, who had regained his wind by now. “‘E ‘s a perishin’ pork pig, that’s wot ‘e is. Joe, you blighter, put me down. It’s me as the Guv expects—it’s me as ‘as come a-visitin’—Joe, put me down, you perisher. Joe’s only a hoaf, ma’am, a nass, ma’am. Joe ain’t used to perlite serciety, Joe don’t know nothin’—put me down, Joe, like a good lad!”

At this juncture Ravenslee appeared, whereupon Joe, having reached the topmost landing, set the old man upon his natty feet and fell to straightening his smart clothes with hands big but gentle.

“Sir,” explained Joe, answering Ravenslee’s smiling look, “Old Sin an’ Sorrer here wouldn’t walk up, which forced me to—”

But now the Old Un, feeling himself again, cut in on his own account. “Ma’am,” said he, flourishing off his hat to Mrs. Trapes, “‘ere ‘s me an’ me lad Joe come to tea—my best respex an’ greetin’s, ma’am. How do, Guv? I do ‘ope as you ain’t forgot th’ cake.”

“Oh, we’ve plenty of cake, Old Un!” laughed Ravenslee.

“An’ water cress an’ jam!” nodded Mrs. Trapes.

“Guv,” said the old man, gripping Ravenslee’s hand, “God bless ye for a true man an’ a noble sport. Ma’am, you’re a angel! Jam, ma’am—you’re a nymp’—you’re two nymp’s—

“‘I oft would cast a rovin’ eye Ere these white ‘airs I grew, ma’am, To see a ‘andsome nymp’ go by, But none s’ fair as you, ma’am.’

“An’ there’s me hand on it, ma’am.”

“My land!” ejaculated Mrs. Trapes, staring; then all at once she laughed, a strange laugh that came and went again immediately, yet left her features a little less grim than usual, as, reaching out, she grasped the old man’s feeble hand.

“I guess you’re only bein’ p’lite,” said she, “but jest for that you’re sure goin’ t’ eat as much cake an’ jam as your small insides can hold.” So saying, she led the way into her small and very neat domain and ushered them into the bright little parlour where the Spider sat already enthroned in that armchair whereon sunflowers rioted. Like the chair, the Spider was somewhat exotic as to socks and tie, and he seemed a trifle irked by stiff cuffs and collar as he sat staring at the green and yellow tablecloth and doing his best not to tread upon the pink hearthrug.

“Joe,” said Ravenslee, “this is Spider Connolly, who knocked out Larry McKinnon at San Francisco last year in the sixty-ninth. Spider, I want you to shake hands with—”

“Bo,” exclaimed the Spider, rising reverently and taking a step toward Joe’s massive figure, quite forgetful of the pink hearthrug now, “you don’t have t’ tell me nothin’. I guess I know th’ best all-round fightin’ man, the greatest champion as ever swung a mitt, when I see him! T’ shake his hand’ll sure be—”

“Young feller, me lad,” cried the Old Un, reaching out nimbly and catching the Spider’s extended hand, “you got a sharp eye, a true eye—a eye as can discrimpinate, like—ah, like a flash o’ light. You’re right, me lad, I was the best fightin’ man, the greatest champeen as ever was—sixty odd years ago. Ho, yus, I were the best of ‘em all, an’ I ain’t t’ be sniffed at now. So shake me ‘and, me lad—an’ shake—hard!”

The Spider’s grim jaw relaxed, and his eyes opened very wide as the Old Un continued to shake his hand up and down.

“But, say,” said he faintly at last, “I don’t—”

“No more don’t I,” nodded the Old Un, “what’s the old song say:

“‘I don’t care if it rains or snows Or what the day may be Since ‘ere’s a truth I plainly knows Love, you’ll remember me.’”

“But say,” began the bewildered Spider again. “Say, I reckon—”

“So do I,” nodded the Old Un:

“‘I reckon up my years o’ life An’ a good long life ‘ave I. Ye see, I never had a wife, P’raps that’s the reason why.’

“So take it from me, young feller, me cove, don’t ‘ave nothin’ to do with givin’ or takin’ in marriage.”

“Marriage?”

“Marriage ain’t good for a fightin’ cove—it spiles him, it shakes ‘is nerve, it fair ruinates ‘im. When love flies in at the winder, champeenships fly up the chimbley—never t’ come back no more. So beware o’ wives, me lad.”

“Wives!” repeated the Spider, lifting free hand to dazed brow, “I—I ain’t never—”

“That’s right!” nodded the Old Un heartily, shaking the Spider’s unresisting hand again, “marriage ain’t love, an’ love ain’t marriage. Wot’s the old song say:

“‘Oh, love is like a bloomin’ rose But marriage is a bloomin’ thorn. An ‘usband ‘s full o’ bloomin’ woes An’ ‘caves a bloomin’ sigh each morn—’”

“Why, Old Un!” exclaimed Ravenslee, “that’s a very remarkable verse!”

“My land!” ejaculated Mrs. Trapes, squaring her elbows in the doorway, “I suspects he’s a poet—an’ him sech a nice little old gentleman!”

“A poet, ma’am!” exclaimed the Old Un indignantly, “not me, ma’am, not me—should scorn t’ be. I’m a ‘ighly respected old fightin’ man, I am, as never went on th’ cross:

“‘A fightin’ man I, ma’am, An’ wish I may die, ma’am, If ever my backers I crossed; An’ what’s better still, ma’am, Though I forgot many a mill, ma’am, Not one of ‘em ever I lost.’”

“My land!” exclaimed Mrs. Trapes again. “What a memory!”

“Memory, ma’am!” growled Joe, “that ain’t memory; ‘e makes ‘em up as ‘e goes along—”

“Joe,” said the Old Un, glaring, “if the lady weren’t here, an’ axin’ ‘er pardon—I’d punch you in the perishin’ eye-‘ole for that!”

“All right, old vindictiveness,” sighed Joe, “an’ now, if you’ll let go of Spider Connolly’s fist, I’d like to say ‘ow do. Sit down an’ give some one else a chance to speak—sit down, you old bag o’ wind—”

“Bag o’—” the old man dropped the Spider’s nerveless hand to turn to Mrs. Trapes with a gloomy brow. “You ‘eard that, ma’am—you ‘eard this perishin’ porker call me a bag o’—Joe, I blush for ye! Ma’am, pore Joe means well, but ‘e can’t ‘elp bein’ a perisher—but”—and here the Old Un raised and shook a feeble old fist—”I’ve a good mind t’ ketch ‘im one as would put ‘im t’ sleep for a fortnight—I’ve a good mind—”

But Mrs. Trapes caught that tremulous fist and drawing the Old Un’s arm through her own, turned to the door.

“You come along with me,” said she, “you shall help me t’ get the tea; you shall carry in th’ cake an’—”

“Cake!” exclaimed the Old Un, “Oh, j’yful word, ma’am; you’re a—a lidy! An’ there’s jam, ain’t there?”

“Strawberry!”

“Straw—oh, music t’ me ears, ma’am—you’re a nymp’—lead me to it!” So saying, the Old Un followed Mrs. Trapes out into the kitchen, while the Spider stared after him open-mouthed.

“Sufferin’ Pete!” he murmured, then, inhaling a long, deep breath, turned to grasp Joe’s mighty, outstretched hand. Then, drawing their chairs together, they sat down, and Ravenslee, by an adroit question or two, soon had them talking, the Spider quick and eager and chewing voraciously, Joe soft-voiced and deliberate but speaking with that calm air of finality that comes only of long and varied experience. So, while Ravenslee smoked and listened, they spoke of past battles, of fights and fighters old and new; they discoursed learnedly on ringcraft, they discussed the merits of the crouch as opposed to the stiff leg and straight left; they stood up to show tricks of foot and hand—cunning shifts and feints; they ducked and side-stepped and smote the empty air with whirling fists to the imminent peril of the owl that was a parrot, which moth-eaten relic seemed to watch them with his solitary glass eye. And ever the Spider’s respect and admiration for the mild-eyed, quiet-spoken champion waxed and grew.

“Bo!” said he, dexterously catching the toppling bird, glass case and all, for the second time, and addressing Ravenslee with it clasped to his heart, “bo,” he repeated, his eyes shining, “I guess Joe Madden, the greatest battler of ‘em all, is—Joe Madden still. I’ve always wanted t’ meet with him, an’ say—I wouldn’t ha’ missed him for a farm.”

“Is that so!” exclaimed Mrs. Trapes, entering the room at this moment with the tea-cloth, “well, now—you jest put ‘im down—you jest put that bird back again, Spider Connolly!”

“Yes, ma’am,” quoth the Spider, all abashed humility.

“What you doin’ with it, anyway?” she demanded, elbows jutted ominously; “it’s lost a eye, an’ a cat got it once an’ sp’iled it some, but I treasure it fer reasons o’ sentiment, an’ if you think you c’n steal it—”

“Not ‘im, ma’am, not ‘im!” piped the Old Un from the doorway, “it ain’t the pore lad’s fault. It’s Joe, blame it all on to Joe—Joe’s got a bad ‘eart, ma’am, a black, base-‘earted perisher is Joe—so no jam for Joe, ma’am, an’ only one slice o’ cake.”

Here Ravenslee hastened to explain, whereupon Mrs. Trapes’s grimness abated, and her bristling elbows subsided; and now, perceiving how the abashed Spider, meeting her eye, flushed, plucked at his cuffs, and shuffled his feet, she reached out to pat his broad and drooping shoulder.

“Mister Connolly,” said she, “for harsh words spoke in haste I craves now your pardon, an’ I craves it—humble. Am I forgive?”

The Spider, flushing redder than ever, rose to his feet, seized her hand, shook it, and muttered: “Sure!”

When the table was laid, the Old Un proposed, and was duly seconded, thirded, and fourthed, that Mrs. Trapes be elected into the chair to pour out the tea, which she proceeded to do forthwith, while the Old Un, seated at her right hand, kept a wary eye roving between jam dish and angel cake. And by reason of the unwonted graciousness of Mrs. Trapes, of Ravenslee’s tact and easy assurance, and the Old Un’s impish hilarity, all diffidence and restraint were banished, and good fellowship reigned supreme, though the Spider was interrupted in the midst of a story by the Old Un suddenly exclaiming:

“Keep your hand out o’ the jam, Joe!”

And Joe was later rendered speechless, hard-breathing, and indignant, by the Old Un turning to Mrs. Trapes with the shrill warning:

“Ma’am, Joe’s ‘ad two ‘elpin’s o’ cake an’ got ‘is ‘orrid eye on what remains!”

Nevertheless, the meal was in all ways a success, and Ravenslee was reaching for his pipe when Mrs. Trapes, summoned to the front door by a feverish knocking, presently came back followed by Tony, whose bright eyes looked wider than usual as he saluted the company.

“Hey, Geoff, me tell-a you piece-a da-noos!” he cried excitedly, “big-a piece-a da-noos. Da cops go-a pinch-a Bud-a M’Ginn’!”

“Bud? Bud?” stammered the Spider. “Have they pinched Bud? Is this the straight goods, Tony?”

“Sure—they gott-a heem this-a morn in Jersey City—’n’ say, he think-a eet a frame-up—he theenk-a Geoff set-a de cops for-a take heem.”

“The hell he does!” exclaimed the Spider, starting to his feet.

“So he send-a da word to Soapy,” continued Tony, his eyes rolling, “an’ now all-a da gang’s out layin’ for-a Geoff. So when Geoff go-a out on da street—bingo! Dey snuff hees light out—”

“Not much they won’t!” said the Spider, buttoning up his coat and turning to the door. “I’ll mighty soon fix this, I guess.”

“Do you think you can, Spider?” enquired Ravenslee. “If you’re going to have any trouble, don’t bother about—”

“Bo,” said the Spider, squaring his big jaw, “get onto this: here’s where I chip in with ye; from now on we’re in this game together, an’ I ain’t a guy as’ll lay down his hand till I’m called—an’ called good, see? You said it was goin’ t’ be a man’s work—by Jiminy Christmas, it looks like you’re right; anyway, I stand in with you, that’s sure—put it there, bo!”

“But,” said Ravenslee, as their hands gripped, “I don’t want you to take any chances on my account, or run any—”

“Fudge, bo, fudge! I ain’t takin’ no chances—”

“Well, I’m coming along to see you don’t!” said Ravenslee, reaching for his hat.

“Not on your life, bo; you’d queer th’ whole show. Y’ see, they’re a tough crowd an’ apt t’ act a bit hasty now an’ then; ‘sides, they might think you’re heeled, and they know I don’t never carry a gun—they all know me—”

“Still, I’m coming, Spider—”

“Y’ can’t, bo; Mrs. Trapes ain’t goin’ t’ let ye—look at her!”

“You never spoke a truer word since you drawed the vital air, Spider Connolly!” nodded Mrs. Trapes, hands on hips and elbows at the “engage.” “If Mr. Geoffrey stirs out this day, he’s jest gotter trample over my mangled remains, that’s all!”

Heeding the glitter in her eye and noting the inexorable jut of her elbows, Ravenslee sat down and went on filling his pipe.

“Y’ see, bo, I know as it wasn’t you as give Bud away, an’ the boys’ll listen t’ my say-so—you bet they will. So here’s where I ooze away. S’ long, all!”

The Old Un, having bolted the last handful of cake, got upon his legs and clutched the Spider’s coat in talon-like fingers.

“‘Old ‘ard, young feller, me lad!” he cried. “If there’s any chance of a scrap comin’ off—wot about me? Gimme me ‘at, Joe, an’ get yourn; if I don’t knock some on ‘em stone cold—call me a perishin’ ass!”

“Why, since you say so, old blood an’ bones,” said Joe, his mild eye brightening, “we will step along with the Spider a little way if the Guv’nor’ll excuse us?”

“Certainly, Joe,” nodded Ravenslee, “on condition that you do just as the Spider says.”

“You mean, sir?”

“No fighting, Joe—at least, not yet.”

“Trust me, sir! What ain’t to be—yet, is to be sometime, I ‘opes,” sighed Joe.

“Good-by, Guv, good-by!” croaked the Old Un, “if I don’t put some o’ they perishers in the ‘orspitals an’ the infirmaries—I ain’t the man I was—

“‘Oh, used am I to war’s alarms I ‘unger for the fray, Though beauty clasps me in ‘er arms The trumpet calls away.’”

So having made their adieux, the three took their departure; though once, despite Joe’s objurgations, the Old Un must needs come back to kiss Mrs. Trapes’s toil-worn hand with a flourish which left her voiceless and round of eye until the clatter of their feet had died away.

Then she closed the door and fixed Ravenslee with her stoniest stare.

“Mr. Geoffrey,” she demanded, “why did they call you ‘Guv’nor’, and wherefore ‘Sir’?”

Ravenslee, in the act of lighting his pipe, had paused for a suitable answer, when Tony, who had remained mute in a corner, stepped forward and spoke:

“Say, Geoff, I got-a bit-a more noos. Old-a Finlay-a want-a spik with-a you—”

“Old Finlay—with me?”

“Sure. Old-a Finlay-a go die-a ver’ queek, an’ he vant-a spik with-a you first.”

“Dying! Old Finlay dying?” questioned Ravenslee, rising.

“Sure! He go die-a ver’ queek.”

“I’ll come!”

“An’ I guess,” said Mrs. Trapes, “yes, I opine as I’ll come along wi’ ye, Mr. Geoffrey.”

Old Martin Finlay lay propped up by pillows, his great, gaunt, useless body seeming almost too large for the narrow bed wherein he lay, staring up great-eyed at Ravenslee—live eyes in a dead face.

“It’s dying I am, sorr,” said he faintly, “an’ it’s grateful is ould Martin for the docthers and medicine you’ve paid for. But it’s meself is beyand ‘em all—an’ it’s beyand ‘em I’m goin’ fast. She’s waitin’ for me—me little Maggie’s houlding out her little hand to me—she’s waitin’ for me—beyand, Holy Mary be praised! An’ she’s waited long enough, sorr, my little Maggie as I loved so while the harsh words burned upon me tongue—my little Maggie! I was bitter cruel to my little girl, but you’ve been kind to me, and, sorr, I thank ye. But,” continued the dying man, slowly and feebly, “it aren’t to thank yez as I wanted ye—but to give yez something in trust for Miss Hermy—ye see, sorr, I shant be here when she comes back to-night, I’ll be with—little Maggie when the hour strikes—my little Maggie! Norah, wife—give it to him.”

Silently Mrs. Finlay opened a drawer, and turning, placed in Ravenslee’s hand a heavy gold ring curiously wrought into the form of two hands clasping each other.

“It was my Maggie’s,” continued Martin, “an’ I guess she valleyed it a whole lot, sorr. I found it hid away with odds and ends as she treasured. But she don’t want it no more—she’s dead, ye see, sorr—I killed her—drowned, sorr—I drowned her. Cruel an’ hard I was—shut her out onto the streets, I did, and so—she died. But before the river took—oh, Blessed Mary—oh, Mother O’ God—pity! Before she went t’ heaven, Miss Hermy was good t’ her; Miss Hermy loved her and tried t’ comfort her—but only God could do that, I reckon—so she went t’ God. But Miss Hermy was kind when I wasn’t, so, sorr, it’s give her that ring ye will, plaze, an’ say as poor Martin died blessing her. An’ now it’s go I’ll ask ye, sorr, for God’s callin’ me to wipe away me tears an’ sorrers and bind up me broken heart—so lave me to God and—my little Maggie—”

Very softly Ravenslee followed Mrs. Trapes out of the room, but they had not reached the front door when they heard a glad cry and thereafter a woman’s sudden desolate sobbing.

“Go on, Mr. Geoffrey,” whispered Mrs. Trapes. “But I guess I’d better stay here a bit.”

“You mean—?”

“As poor Martin’s sure found his little girl again!”

CHAPTER XXV

HOW SPIKE MADE A CHOICE AND A PROMISE

Monday morning found Ravenslee knocking at the opposite door, which opening, disclosed Spike, but a very chastened and humble Spike, who blushed and drooped his head and shuffled with his feet and finally stammered:

“Hello, Geoff—I—I’m all alone, but you—you can come in if—if you care to?”

“I dropped in on my way down just to have a word with you, Spike.”

With dragging feet Spike led the way into the sitting room, where lay his breakfast, scarcely tasted.

“Sit down, Geoff, I—I want to apologise,” said the lad, toying nervously with his teaspoon. “I guess you think I’m a mean, low-down sort o’ guy, an’ you’re right, only I—I feel worse ‘n you think. An’ say, Geoff, if I—if I said anything th’ other night, I want you to—forget it, will you?”

“Why, of course, Spike.”

“Hermy’s forgiven me. I—I’ve promised to work hard an’ do what she wants.”

“I’m glad of that, Spike!”

“She came creepin’ into my room this mornin’ before she went, but—me thinkin’ she meant to give me a last call down—I pretended t’ be asleep, so she just sighed an’ went creepin’ out again an’ wrote me this,” and Spike drew a sheet of crumpled note paper from his pocket and handed it to Ravenslee, who read these words:

Boy dear, I love you so much that if you destroyed my love, I think you would destroy me too. Now I must leave you to go to my work, but you will go to yours, won’t you—for my sake and for your sake and because I love you so. Be good and strong and clean, and if you want some one to help you, go to your friend, Mr. Geoffrey. Good-by, dear—and remember your promise.

Ravenslee passed back the pencilled scrawl and Spike, bending his head low, read it through again.

“I guess I’ve just got t’ be good,” he murmured, “for her sake. Oh, Geoff,” he cried suddenly, “I’d die for her!”

“Better live for her, Spike, and be the honourable, clean man she wishes.”

“She sure thinks you’re some man, Geoff! I guess she’s—kind o’—fond of you.”

“That’s what I’ve come to talk about, Spike.”

“Are you—fond of her, Geoff?”

“Fond!” exclaimed Ravenslee, forgetting to drawl, “I’m so fond—I love her so much—I honour her so deeply that I want her for my wife.”

“Wife?” exclaimed Spike, starting to his feet, his eyes suddenly radiant, “d’ye mean you’ll marry her?”

“If she will honour me so far, Spike.”

“Marry her! You’ll marry her!” Spike repeated.

“As soon as she’ll let me!”

“Geoff—oh, Geoff,” exclaimed the boy, and choking, turned away.

“Won’t you congratulate me?”

“I can’t yet,” gasped Spike; “I can’t till I’ve told ye what a mean guy I’ve been.”

“What about?”

“About you—and Hermy. Bud said you meant t’ make her go the way—little Maggie Finlay went, an’—oh, Geoff, I—I kind of believed him.”

“Did you, Spike—that foul beast? But you don’t believe it any longer, and M’Ginnis is—only M’Ginnis, after all.”

“But I—I’ve got to tell you more,” said the lad miserably, as meeting Ravenslee’s eye with an effort, he went on feverishly. “The other night after—after Bud slipped me the—the stuff an’ I’d had a—a drink or two, he began askin’ all about you. At first I blocked and side-stepped all his questions, but he kep’ on at me, an’ at last I—I give you away, Geoff—” Here Spike paused breathlessly and cast an apprehensive glance toward his hearer, but finding him silent and serene as ever he repeated:

“I—gave you away, Geoff!”

“Did you, Spike?”

“Yes, I—I told him who you really are!”

“Did you, Spike?”

“Yes! Yes! Oh, Geoff, don’t you understand?”

“I understand.”

“Well, why don’t ye say something? Why don’t ye tell me what I am? Say I’m a dirty sneak—call me a yeller cur—anything!”

“No, you were drunk, that’s all; and when the drink is in, honour, and all that makes a man, is out—you were only drunk.”

“Oh, but I wasn’t s’ drunk as all that,” gasped Spike, cowering in his chair, “but he kep’ on comin’ at me with his questions, an’ at last—when I told him how I met up with you—he kind o’ give a jump—an’ his face—” Spike clenched his fists and, slowly raising them, pressed them upon his eyes. “I’ll never forget th’ look on—his face! So now you know as I’ve blown th’ game on ye—given ye away—you as was my friend!” With the word Spike sobbed and fell grovelling on his knees. “Curse me, Geoff!” he cried. “Oh, curse me, an’ tell me what I am!”

“You are Hermione’s brother!”

“My God!” wailed the boy. “If she knew, she’d hate me.”

“I—almost think she would, Spike.”

“You won’t tell her, Geoff, you won’t never let her know?”

“I—don’t get drunk, Spike.”

“But you won’t tell her?” he pleaded, reaching out desperate hands, “you won’t?”

“Not a word, Spike!”

“Oh, I know I’m—rotten!” sobbed the lad. “I know you ain’t got no use for me any more, but I’m sorry, Geoff, I’m real sorry. I know a guy can’t forgive a guy as gives a guy away if that guy’s a guy’s friend. I know as you can’t forgive me. I know as you’ll cut me out for good after this. But I want ye t’ know as I’m sorry, Geoff—awful sorry—I—I ain’t fit t’ be anybody’s friend, I guess.”

“I think you need a friend more than ever, Spike!”

“Geoff!” cried the boy breathlessly. “Say—what d’ you mean?”

“I mean the time has come for you to choose between M’Ginnis and me. If I am to be your friend, M’Ginnis must be your enemy from now on—wait! If you want my friendship, no more secrets; tell me just how M’Ginnis got you into his power—how he got you to break into my house.”

Spike glanced up through his tears, glanced down, choked upon a sob, and burst into breathless narrative.

“There was me an’ Bud an’ a guy they call Heine—we’d been to a rube boxin’ match up th’ river. An’ as we come along, Heine says: ‘If I was in th’ second-story-lay there’s millionaire Ravenslee’s wigwam waitin’ t’ be cracked,’ an’ he pointed out your swell place among th’ trees in th’ moonlight. Then Bud says: ‘You ain’t got th’ nerve, Heine. Why, th’ Kid’s got more nerve than you,’ he says, pattin’ my shoulder. An’ Heine laughs an’ says I’m only a kid. An’ Geoff, I’d got two or three drinks into me an’ th’ end was I agreed t’ just show ‘em as I had nerve enough t’ get in through a winder an’ cop something—anything I could get. So Bud hands me his ‘lectric torch, an’ we skin over th’ fence an’ up to th’ house—an’ Heine has th’ winder open in a jiffy, an’ me—bein’ half-soused an’ foolish—hikes inter th’ room, an’ you cops me on th’ jump an’—an’ that’s all!”

“And M’Ginnis has threatened to send you up for it now and then, eh?”

“Only for a joke. Bud ain’t like me; he’d never split on a pal—Bud wouldn’t gimme away—”

“Anyway, Spike, it’s him or me. Which will you have for a friend?”

“Oh, Geoff, I—I guess I’d follow you t’ Kingdom Come if you’d let me. I do want t’ live straight an’ clean—honest t’ God I do, Geoff, an’ if you’ll only forgive—”

Spike’s outstretched, pleading hands were caught and held, and he was lifted to his feet.

“My Arthur-Spike, art going to the office this morning?”

“Sure I am; my eye ain’t—ain’t s’ bad, after all, is it? Anyway, I feel more like what a man should feel like now, an’—Gee! look at me doin’ the sissy tear-spoutin’ act! Oh, hell—lemme go an’ wash me face. ‘N’ say, if—if any o’ them—I mean those dolly office boys has anything t’ say, I’ll punch th’ sawdust out o’ them!”

CHAPTER XXVI

WHICH MAKES FURTHER MENTION OF A RING

Ravenslee, strolling in leisurely fashion along Tenth Avenue, became aware of a slender, pallid youth whose old-young face was familiar; a cigarette dangled from his pale, thin lips, and his slender hands were hidden in the pockets of his smartly tailored coat. On went Ravenslee, pausing now and then to glance idly into some shop window until, chancing to slip his fingers into a waistcoat pocket, he paused all at once and, drawing thence a ring wrought into the semblance of two clasped hands, drew it upon his finger. Now as he glanced at the ring, his eye gleamed and, smiling as one who has a sudden bright idea, he set off faster than before, striding on light and purposeful feet. But, as he turned a corner, he noticed that the pallid youth was still close behind, wherefore he halted before a shop window where, among other articles of diet, were cans of tomatoes neatly piled into a pyramid. At these he stared, waiting, and presently found the pallid youth at his elbow, who also stared upon the tomato pyramid with half-closed eyes and with smouldering cigarette pendent from thin-lipped mouth. And after they had stared awhile in silence, cheek by jowl, Ravenslee spoke in his pleasant, lazy voice:

“Judging by the labels these tomatoes are everything tomatoes possibly could be.”

“‘S right!” murmured the pale one imperturbably.

“Fond of tomatoes?” enquired Ravenslee.

“Aw!” answered his neighbour, “quit foolin’—talk sense!”

“Certainly! Why do you follow me, Soapy?”

Soapy’s eyes grew narrower, and the pendent cigarette stirred slightly.

“Know me, hey?” he enquired.

“Heaven forbid! ‘T was a bolt at a venture—a shot in the dark.”

“Talkin’—o’—shootin’,” said Soapy, grimly deliberate, “peanuts ain’t a healthy profesh around here—not fer your kind, it ain’t!”

“Oh, I don’t know,” answered Ravenslee, shaking his head gently at the tomatoes, “I’ve heard of professions even more unhealthy.”

“Aw—well—say what?”

“Well, talking of shooting—yours!”

Soapy’s narrow eyes gleamed with an added viciousness, his pale nostrils expanded, but the retort died upon his curling mouth, his puffy eyelids widened and widened as he stared at the ring on Ravenslee’s finger, and when he spoke his voice was strangely hoarse and eager.

“Say, sport—where’d you—get that—ring?”

“Why do you ask?”

“‘Cause I want to know, I guess.”

“Think you’ve seen it before?”

“Sport, I don’t think—I know. I seen it many a time. I’d know it in a million, sure.”

“Where did you see it before?”

“On M’Ginnis’s mitt. It useter belong t’ Bud.”

“Ah!” exclaimed Ravenslee, scowling down at the ring, “you make me wish more than ever that I had throttled him a little harder.”

“Where’d you get that ring, sport?” Soapy repeated.

“From Maggie Finlay’s father!”

Soapy turned away to stare at the tomato cans again.

“Meanin’?” he enquired at last, hoarser than before.

“That once upon a time it belonged to—her.”

“Sport,” said Soapy after an interval, still staring at the pyramid of cans, “I useter know her once, an’ I’ve jest nacherally took a fancy t’ that ring; if fifty dollars’ll buy it, they’re yours—right now.”

“It isn’t mine,” answered Ravenslee, still scowling at the ring which he had drawn from his finger. “I’m on my way to take it to—its owner. But if that person doesn’t want it, and I’m pretty sure—that person—won’t, you shall have it, I promise you. And now,” said he, pocketing the ring and turning, still scowling, on Soapy, “you are one of M’Ginnis’s gang, I fancy; anyway, if you see him you can tell him from me that if he gives me another chance I’ll surely kill him for the foul beast he is.”

“Sport,” said Soapy, “I guess the Spider’s right about you—anyway, you ain’t my meat. An’ as fer killin’ Bud—you sure ain’t goin’ t’ get th’ chance—not while I have the say-so. S’ long, sport!” and turning upon his heel, Soapy lounged away.

At Times Square Ravenslee entered the subway and, buying his ticket, was jostled by a boy, a freckled boy, round-headed and round of nose, who stared at him with a pair of round, impertinent eyes.

Lost in happy speculation he was duly borne to One Hundred and Thirtieth Street, where he boarded the ferry. Upon the boat he was again conscious of a round head that bobbed here and there amid the throng of passengers, but paid small heed as he leaned to watch the broad and noble river and the green New Jersey shore. At Fort Lee, exchanging boat for trolley car, he was once more vaguely conscious of two round eyes that watched him from a rear seat; but as the powerful car whirled them up-hill, plunged them down steep inclines, swung them around sharp curves, through shady woods, past far-flung boughs whose leaves stirred and whispered as the great car fleeted by, he fell again to dreaming of Hermione and the future; and so reached Englewood, a small township dreaming in the fierce midday sunshine. Here he enquired of a perspiring butcher in shirtsleeves the whereabouts of the house he wanted and, being fully directed and carefully admonished how to get there, set off along the road. And remembering that her feet must often have traversed this very path, he straightway fell to his dreaming again. Thus how should he know anything of the round head that bobbed out from behind bush or tree ere it followed whither he went? So Ravenslee came where the road led between tall trees—to smooth green lawns beyond which was the gleam of water and so at last to the house he sought.

Now beside this house, separated by a wide stretch of lawn, was a small wood and, lured by its grateful shade, he turned aside into this wood and began pushing his way through the dense undergrowth, which presently thinned to form a small clearing, roofed and shut in by leaves and full of a tender green light. Here he paused, and espying a fallen tree hard by, sat himself down and began to fill his pipe. And now, remembering his shabby person, he felt disinclined to go up to the house and demand to see Miss Chesterton. Yet see her he would—but how? He was frowning over this problem when it was resolved for him quite unexpectedly; roused by the sound of a snapping twig, he glanced up—and Hermione was before him. She was coming down a narrow path that wound amid the leaves, and because she wore no hat, the sunlight, filtering through the branches, made a glory of her hair as she passed. Her head was bowed, and she walked very slowly as one in thought; she had brought sewing with her, but for once her busy hands were idle, and, as he looked upon her beauty, scarce breathing, he saw again that look of wistful sadness.

As he rose, she glanced up, and seeing him, stood utterly still. Thus for a long moment they gazed upon each other, then, even as he hastened to her, she came to him on swift, light feet, and, flushing, tremulous, quick-breathing, gave herself into his arms.

“Oh, Hermione, my beloved!” he murmured, his voice tense and eager, “didn’t I say enough, last time? Don’t you know I love you—worship you—hunger and yearn for you? I want you with every breath I draw. When will you be my wife—oh, when will you marry me, Hermione?”

For answer she reached up her arms, sudden, passionate arms that clung about him close and strong; so they stood thus, heart beating to heart, thrilling at each other’s nearness yet drawing ever closer until, lifting her head, she gave her lips to his.

“Oh, my dear, my dear,” she whispered, “is it right to love you so, I wonder? I never thought it could be—like this. It frightens me sometimes, because my love is so great and strong and I—so powerless. Is it right? I—Oh!” she broke off breathlessly, “how can I speak if—if you—”

“Kiss you so much?” he ended, “you can’t speak, so—don’t speak, my Hermione!” But now, all at once, he started and glanced up among the leaves above them.

“Dear,” she whispered, “what is it?”

“That tapping sound,” he answered, still gazing upward.

“It’s only the woodpecker.”

“Why, of course!” he laughed. “It’s strange, but I dreamed a scene like this—yes, the great tree yonder, and you in my arms—though it seemed so impossible then, and—”

But uttering a sudden, low cry of alarm, Hermione broke from his clasp and fled from him along the leafy path while he stared after her, lost in amazement; then he ran also and caught her upon the edge of the little wood.

“What frightened you, Hermione—who was it?”

“I—I thought I saw some one crouching behind a bush—watching us!”

“Not—M’Ginnis?” he demanded, fierce-eyed.

“No—no, I’m sure it wasn’t!”

“I’ll go and look,” said Ravenslee, clenching his fists. But now, as he turned away, two round arms were about him again, soft and compelling, and she was looking up at him, all shy-eyed, passionate tenderness; and before the revelation in that look, he forgot all else in the world.

“Hermione—when will you marry me?”

Now, softened by distance, there floated to them the mellow booming of a gong.

“That means I must go!” she sighed.

“Hermione—when will you marry me?”

“Good-by—good-by—I must run!”

But his long arms only clasped her the closer.

“Hermione, when will you be my wife?”

“Oh, please, please let me go; if I’m late—”

“When, Hermione?”

“When I—come home, if—you really—want me—Oh, now my hair’s all coming down, I know. Good-by!”

Reluctantly he loosed her and stood to watch until, reaching the verandah of the house, she paused to glance back to where he stood among the leaves ere she vanished between the screen doors. Then Ravenslee turned, and remembering her sudden fright, looked sharply about him, even pausing, now and then, to peer behind bush and thicket; but this time he did not think to glance upward, and thus failed to see the round eyes that watched him from amid the leaves of the great tree.

So he came again to the dusty highway and strode along, throbbing with life and the lust of life, revelling in the glory of earth and sky and quite unconscious of the small, furtive figure that flitted after him far behind.

And it was not until he sat in the ferryboat that he remembered he had forgotten to give her the ring, after all.

CHAPTER XXVII

MRS. TRAPES UPON THE MILLENNIUM

Mulligan’s was in a ferment. Bare-armed women talked in every doorway; they talked from open windows, they talked leaning over banisters, they congregated on landings and in passageways—but everywhere they talked; while men and youths newly returned from work, lunch-can and basket in hand, listened in wide-eyed astonishment, shook incredulous heads, puffed thoughtfully at pipes or cigarettes, and questioned in guttural wonderment.

But Ravenslee, lost in his own happy thoughts, sped up the stairs all unheeding, abstractedly returning such neighbourly salutes as he happened to notice; reaching his lofty habitation in due course he let himself in, and was in the act of filling his pipe when Mrs. Trapes appeared. In one hand she grasped a meat skewer and in the other an open testament, and it was to be noted that her bright eyes, usually so keen and steady, roved here and there, from pink rug to green and yellow tablecloth, thence to the parrot-owl, and at last to her lodger. Finally she spoke.

“Mr. Geoffrey, are ye saved?” she demanded in awe-struck tones.

“Why, really, Mrs. Trapes, I—”

“Because, Mr. Geoffrey, this day it behooveth us all t’ think of our souls an’ th’ hereafter, I reckon.”

“Souls?” said Ravenslee, staring in his turn.

“Fire,” she continued, shaking portentous head, “fire I’m prepared for; a earthquake I could endoor; battle, murder, and sudden death I could abide; poverty is me lot, Mr. Geoffrey, an’ hardship is me portion, an’ for all sich am I dooly prepared, sich things bein’ nacheral; but fer this—well, there!”

“What is the matter, Mrs. Trapes?”

“Matter, Mr. Geoffrey? Well, the millenyum’s at hand, that’s all—the lion is about t’ lay down with th’ lamb, tigers has lost their taste fer blood, an’ snakes an’ serpints has shed their vennymous fangs! Mr. Geoffrey—the day is at hand—beware!”

“What in the world—” began Ravenslee, but Mrs. Trapes stayed him with uplifted skewer, and drew from the mysterious recesses of her apron a folded circular which she proceeded to spread open and from which she read in a hollow voice as follows:

NOTICE AUGUST 1, 1910.

On and after the above date, all tenants soever residing within the tenement house known as Mulligan’s are warned that all rents will be reduced by fifty per cent.

BY ORDER.

“Now what,” said Mrs. Trapes, refolding the circular very reverently and shutting it into the testament, “jest what d’ye think o’ that?”

“Quite a—er—remarkable document, Mrs. Trapes!”

“Remarkable?” snorted Mrs. Trapes.

“Yes,” said Ravenslee, beginning to fill his pipe, “extraordinary, most extraordinary—er—very much so—”

“Extraordinary? Mr. Geoffrey, is that all you got t’ say about it?” And Mrs. Trapes sniffed loudly.

“Well, what more should I say?”

“Why, ain’t it th’ wonder o’ th’ whole round world? Ain’t it th’ merrycle of all time?”

“Certainly! Not a doubt of it!” he agreed. “By the way, what do you happen to have for supper? You see I’ve been—”

“Supper?”

“I’m quite hungry—I’m always hungry lately and—”

“Hungry!” ejaculated Mrs. Trapes, rolling her eyes, “here I tell him of wonders an’ omens beyond pore huming understanding an’—he’s hungry! Lord, ain’t that jest like a man! A man’s soul, if a man has a soul, lays in his stummick. Hungry! But you shall be fed—prompt, Mr. Geoffrey. How’ll b’iled salmon an’ peas soot?”

“Splendidly! And I think—”

“‘On and after,’” said Mrs. Trapes, slowly and dreamily, “‘on and after the above date, all tenants soever residin’—I’ve learned it by heart, Mr. Geoffrey. Then it goes on to say, ‘within the tennyment house known as Mulligan’s are warned’—hum! I wonder why ‘warned’?—’are warned that all rents will be re-dooced by fifty per cent!’ Fifty per cent!” she repeated in a dreamy rapture, “which is jest half, y’ see. An’, Mr. Geoffrey, that’s jest what’s got me plumb scared—it’s all so unnacheral. I’ve heard o’ rents bein’ rose—constant, but who ever heard of ‘em bein’ took down before? Well, well! My land! Well, well!”

With which remark Mrs. Trapes went about her household duties, leaving Ravenslee to lounge and smoke and dream blissfully of Hermione.

“Y’ see,” said Mrs. Trapes, wandering in with a plate, “it’ll make things s’ much easier for all of us; we shall begin t’ feel almost rich—some of us. ‘Are warned that all rents will be re-dooced by fifty per cent.’ Well, well!” and she wandered out again.

But presently she was back once more, this time with the tablecloth, which she proceeded to spread, though still lost in dreamy abstraction.

“At first I couldn’t an’ I wouldn’t believe it, Mr. Geoffrey—no, sir!” she continued in the same rapt voice. “But every one’s got a notice same as mine, so I guess it must be true—don’t ye think?”

“Not a doubt of it!” answered Ravenslee.

“But th’ burnin’ question as I asks myself is—who? It’s signed ‘By Order’, y’ see, well—whose? One sure thing, it ain’t Mulligan.”

“But he owns the place, doesn’t he?”

“He did, Mr. Geoffrey, an’ that’s what worries me—continual. What I demands is—who now?”

“Echo, Mrs. Trapes, methinks doth answer ‘Who?’ By the way, it was—er—salmon and green peas I think you—”

“My land, that bit o’ salmon’ll bile itself t’ rags!” and incontinent she vanished.

However, in due time Ravenslee sat down to as tasty a supper as might be and did ample justice to it, while Mrs. Trapes once more read aloud for his edification from the wondrous circular, and was again propounding the vexed and burning question of “who” when she was interrupted by a knocking without, and going to the door, presently returned with little Mrs. Bowker, in whose tired eyes shone an unusual light, and whose faded voice held a strange note of gladness.

“Good evenin’, Mr. Geoffrey!” said she, bobbing him a curtsey as he rose to greet her, “my Hazel sends you her love an’ a kiss for them last candies—an’ thank ye for all th’ medicine—but oh, Mr. Geoffrey, an’ you, Ann Trapes, you’ll never guess what’s brought me. I’ve come t’ wish ye good-by, we’re—oh, Ann, we’re goin’ at last!”

“Goin’!” exclaimed Mrs. Trapes, clutching at her elbows, “y’ never mean as you’re leavin’ Mulligan’s now the rent’s been took down—re-dooced fifty per cent.—by order?”

“That’s just what I’m tellin’ ye—oh, Ann, ain’t it just—heavenly!”

“Heavenly!” repeated Mrs. Trapes, and sank into a chair.

“Yes, heavenly t’ see th’ trees an’ flowers again—t’ live among them, Ann.”

“Samanthy Bowker—what do you mean?”

“Why, Ann, my Tom’s had a gardener’s job offered him at a gentleman’s mansion in the country. Tom went after it t’day—an’ got it. Fifteen dollars a week an’ a cottage—free, Ann! Hazel’s just crazy with joy—an’ so’m I!”

Mrs. Trapes fanned herself feebly with her apron.

“All I can say is,” said she faintly, “if the world don’t come to an end soon—I shall. A gardener’s job! A cottage in th’ country! Why, that’s what you’ve been hungerin’ for, you an’ Bowker, ever since I’ve known ye. And to-day—it’s come! An’ to-day the rent’s re-dooced itself fifty per cent. by order—oh, dear land o’ my fathers! When d’ ye go?”

“T’morrow mornin’, Ann. Hazel’ll sure grow a strong, well girl in th’ country—doctor said so last week—you heard him, Mr. Geoffrey, didn’t you?”

“I did, Mrs. Bowker.”

“And my Tom’s that excited he couldn’t eat no supper—oh, an’ have ye seen in t’night’s paper, Ann, about Mulligan’s?”

“No—what now?” enquired Mrs. Trapes, as though on the verge of collapsing.

“Well, read that—right there!” and unfolding an evening paper, Mrs. Bowker pointed to a paragraph tucked away into a corner, and, drawing a deep breath, Mrs. Trapes read aloud as follows:

It is understood that Geoffrey Ravenslee, the well-known sportsman and millionaire, winner of last year’s International Automobile race and holder of the world’s long-distance speed record, has lately paid a record price in a real estate deal. A certain tenement building off Tenth Avenue has been purchased by him, the cost of which, it is rumoured, was fabulous.

“Fab’lous!” repeated Mrs. Trapes, and sniffed. “Well, I never had no use fer millionaires, anyway—they’re generally fools or rogues—this one’s a fool sure—any one is as would give much fer a place like Mulligan’s—an’ yet, come t’ think of it again—’are warned as all rents will be re-dooced fifty per cent. by order’—yes, come t’ think of it again, what I say is—God bless this millionaire, an’ whatever he is, Ann Angelina Trapes is sure goin’ t’ mention him before th’ Throne this night.”

CHAPTER XXVIII

WHICH SHOULD HAVE RELATED DETAILS OF A WEDDING

“It’s all very, very wonderful, Ann, dear! But then—everything is so wonderful—just lately!”

“Meanin’ what, Hermy?”

Hermione was darning one of Spike’s much-mended socks, while Mrs. Trapes sat drinking tea. “Meanin’ jest what is wonderful, my dear, and—since when?” she persisted.

“Oh—everything, Ann!”

“Yes, you said everything before. S’pose you tell me jest the one thing as you find so wonderful? An’—why an’ wherefore that blush?”

“Oh, Ann—Ann, dear!” Down went sock and needle and, falling on her knees, Hermione clasped her arms about Mrs. Trapes and hid her glowing face in her lap. “Ann, dear, I’m so happy!” she sighed—her speech a little muffled by reason of the voluminous folds of Mrs. Trapes’s snowy apron.

“Happy?” said Mrs. Trapes, setting down her teacup to fondle and stroke that shapely head, “sich happiness ain’t all because of the rent bein’ re-dooced, by order, I reckon—is it?”

“Dear Ann,” said Hermione, her face still hidden, “can’t you guess?”

“No, my dear,” answered Mrs. Trapes, her harsh tones wonderfully soft, “I don’t have to—I guessed days ago. D’ ye love him, Hermy?”

“Love him!” repeated Hermione, and said no more, nor did she lift her bowed head, but feeling the quick, strong pressure of those soft, embracing arms, the quiver of that girlish body, Mrs. Trapes smiled, and stooping, kissed Hermione’s shining hair.

“When did he speak, my dear?”

“Last Monday, Ann.”

“Did he say—much?”

“He asked me to—marry him.”

“Spoke of marriage, eh? Did he happen t’ mention th’ word—wife?”

“Oh, many times, Ann.”

“Good f’r him! An’ when’s it t’ be?”

“Oh, Ann, dear, I—I’m afraid it’s—to-night!”

“T’night? My land, he’s sure some hasty!”

“And so—so masterful, Ann!”

“Well, y’ sure need a master. But t’night—land sakes!”

“He wrote and told me he would fix things so he could marry me to-night, Ann!”

“Then he’s sure out fixin’ ‘em right now. Lord, Hermy, why d’ ye tremble, girl—y’ sure love him, don’t ye?”

“So much, Ann, so very much—and yet—”

“You ain’t scared of him, are ye?”

“No—and yet, I—I think I am—a little.”

“But you’ll marry him, all the same?”

“Yes.”

“An’ t’night?”

“Yes. But Ann, dear, when he comes in I want you to keep him with you as long as you can—will you?”

“Why, sure I’ll keep him, jest as long as—he’ll let me! Lord, t’ think as my little Hermy’ll be a married woman this night!”

“And—oh, Ann, I haven’t any—trousseau—”

“Shucks! You don’t need none. You’re best as you are. You won’t need no fluffs an’ frills, I reckon.”

“But, Ann dear,” said Hermione, lifting her head and shaking it ruefully, “I have—nothing! And my best dress—I made it in such a hurry, you remember—it needs pressing and—”

“He ain’t marryin’ you fer your clo’es, Hermy—no, sir! It’s you he wants an’—oh, shucks! What do clo’es matter t’ you, anyway? You was meant to be one o’ them nymphs an’ goddesses as went about clad—well, airy. You’d ha’ done fine with them soft arms an’ shoulders an’—”

“But I’m not a goddess, Ann, I’m only poor Hermy Chesterton—with a hole in one stocking and the lace on her petticoat torn, and her other things—well, look here!” and up whirled gown and petticoat, “see what a state they’re in—look, Ann!”

“My dear, I am!” nodded Mrs. Trapes over her teacup, “an’ what I say is, it don’t matter a row o’ pins if a stockin’ ‘s got a bit of a hole in it if that stockin’ ‘s on sich a leg as that! An’ as fer—”

“But,” sighed Hermione, “don’t you understand—”

“My dear, I do! I was a married woman once, mind. An’ I tell you ‘beauty doth lie in the eye o’ the beholder’, my dear, an’ the two eyes as is a-goin’ t’ behold you this night is goin’ t’ behold so much beauty as they won’t behold nothin’ else.”

“But—he loves dainty things, I’m sure.”

“Well, ain’t he gettin’ a dainty thing? Ain’t he gettin’ th’ daintiest, sweetest, loveliest—” Here Mrs. Trapes set down her cup again to clasp Hermione in her arms.

“Do you think he’ll—understand, Ann?”

“He’ll be a fool if he doesn’t!”

“And make allowances? He knows how poor we are and how busy I have to be.”

“He does so, my dear. But, if it’s goin’ t’ comfort you any, there’s that corset cover you made me last Christmas. I ain’t never wore it; I ain’t dared to with all them trimmin’s an’ lace insertion, an’ me s’ bony here an’ there. You can have it an’ willin’, my dear, an’ then there’s them—”

“Ann, you dear thing, as if I would!”

“Why not? That corset cover’s a dream! An’ then there’s them—”

“Dear, I couldn’t—I wouldn’t! No, I’ll go to him just as I am—he shall marry me just like I am—”

“An’ that’s a goddess!” nodded Mrs. Trapes, “yes, a young goddess—only, with more clo’es on, o’ course. I’m glad as he’s quit peanuts; peanut men don’t kind o’ jibe in with goddesses.”

“Ann,” said Hermione, sitting back on her heels, “I think of him a great deal, of course, and—just lately—I’ve begun to wonder—”

“My dear,” said Mrs. Trapes, blowing her tea, “so do I! I been wonderin’ ever since he walked into my flat, cool as I don’t know what, an’, my dear, when I sets me mind t’ wonderment, conclusions arrive—constant! I’ll tell ye what I think. First, he ain’t s’ poor as he seems—he wears silk socks, my dear. Second, he’s been nurtured tender—he cleans them white teeth night an’ morn. Third, he ain’t done no toil-an’-spinnin’ act—take heed t’ his hands, my dear. He’s soft-spoke but he’s masterful. He’s young, but he’s seen a lot. He ain’t easy t’ rile, but when he is—my land! He don’t say a lot, an’ he don’t seem t’ do much, an’ yet—he don’t seem t’ starve none. Result—he may be anything!”

“Anything? Ann, dear!”

“Anything!” repeated Mrs. Trapes. “An’ havin’ studied him good an’ heeded him careful, I now conclood he’s jest the thing you need, my dear.”

“Then you like him, Ann—you trust him?”

“I sure do.”

“Oh, you dear—dear—dear thing!” And once again Mrs. Trapes was clasped in those vigorous young arms and kissed with every “dear.”

“Though, mind you,” said Mrs. Trapes, pushing cup and saucer out of harm’s way, “though, mind you, he’s a mystery I ain’t found out—yet. D’ ye s’pose he made any money out o’ them blessed peanuts—not him! Mrs. Smalley, as lives down along ‘Leventh, she told me as she’s seen him givin’ ‘em away by the bagful t’ all the children down her way—repeated!”

“How sweet of him!” said Hermione, her red mouth all tender curves.

“Yes, but how did he live? How does he? How will he?”

“I don’t know, dear; I only know I would trust him always—always!” And sitting back, chin in hand, Hermione fell again to happy thought.

“When he give up the nuts,” pursued Mrs. Trapes, draining the teapot and sighing, “he tells me some fool tale of makin’ a deal in real estate, an’ I—ha, real estate!” Mrs. Trapes put down the teapot with a jerk. “A deal in real estate!” she repeated, and thereafter fell to such unintelligible mutterings as “Record price! Fab’lous! No, it couldn’t be! An’ yet—silk socks! ‘On an’ after above date all tenants soever residin’—will be re-dooced by fifty per cent!’” Suddenly Mrs. Trapes sat bolt upright. “My land!” she ejaculated, “oh, dear land o’ my fathers—if sech could be!”

“Why, Ann,” exclaimed Hermione, roused from her reverie, “whatever is the matter?”

“My dear,” said Mrs. Trapes, laying gentle hand on Hermione’s blooming cheek, “nothin’—nothin’ ‘t all! I’m jest goin’ over in my mind sich small matters as silk socks an’ toothbrushes, that’s all.”

“But you do mean something—you always do.”

“Well—if I do this time, my dear, I’m crazy—but the Bowkers have gone, mind that! An’ him s’ fond o’ little Hazel!” Here Mrs. Trapes nodded almost triumphantly.

“The Bowkers? Why, yes—I’ve been wondering—”

“I guess you know he went t’ O’Rourke’s an’ give that M’Ginnis the thrashin’ of his dirty life?” said Mrs. Trapes rather hastily. “Nigh killed the loafer, Spider Connolly told me.”

“He’s so strong,” said Hermione softly, her eyes shining. “But, Ann, what did you mean about—about toothbrushes and socks?”

“Mean? Why, socks an’ toothbrushes, o’ course. An’ my land! here’s me guzzlin’ tea, an’ over in my kitchen th’ finest shin o’ beef you ever saw a-b’ilin’ f’r his supper. But now the question as burns is, if a married man this night, will he be here t’ eat? An’ if him—then you? An’ if man an’ wife suppin’ in my parlour—where will ye sleep?”

“I—oh, Ann—I don’t know. His letter just said that when I came home it would be our—wedding night!”

“Why, then it sure will be. An’ f’r a weddin’ supper, y’ couldn’t have nothin’ better ‘n shin o’ beef. I’ll go an’ watch over that stoo with care unfailin’, my dear; believe me, that stoo’s goin’ t’ be a stoo as is a stoo! What, half after five? Land sakes, how time flies!”

CHAPTER XXIX

IN WHICH HERMIONE MAKES A FATEFUL DECISION

When Mrs. Trapes was gone, Hermione stood a long time to look at herself in her little mirror, viewing and examining each feature of her lovely, intent face more earnestly than she had ever done before; and sometimes she smiled, and sometimes she frowned, and all her thought was:

“Shall I make him happy, I wonder? Can I be all he wants—all he thinks I am?”

So, after some while, she combed and brushed out her glorious hair, shyly glad because of its length and splendour; and, having crowned her shapely head with it, viewed the effect with cold, hypercritical eyes.

“Can I, oh, can I ever be all he wants—all he thinks I am?”

And then she proceeded to dress; the holey stockings were replaced by others that had seen less service; the worn frills and laces were changed for others less threadbare. This done, Hermione, with many supple twists, wriggled dexterously into her best dress, pausing now and then to sigh mournfully and grieve over its many deficiencies and shortcomings, defects which only feminine eyes, so coldly critical, might hope to behold.

Scarcely was all this accomplished when she heard a soft knock at the outer door, and at the sound her heart leapt; she flushed and paled and stood a moment striving to stay the quick, heavy throbbing within her bosom; then breathlessly she hastened along the passage and, opening the door with trembling hands, beheld Bud M’Ginnis. While she stared, dumb and amazed, he entered and, closing the door, leaned his broad back against it.

“Goin’ away, Hermy?” he enquired softly, looking her over with his slow gaze.

“Yes.”

“Goin’ far, Hermy?”

“I don’t know.”

“Goin’—alone, Hermy?”

“Why are you here? What do you want?”

“T’ save ye from—hell!” he answered, his voice rising loud and harsh on the last word. “Oh, I know,” he went on fiercely, “I know why you’re all dolled up in your best. I know as you mean t’ go away to-night with—him. But you ain’t goin’, girl—you ain’t.”

“To-night,” she said gently, “is my wedding night.”

M’Ginnis lifted a hand and wrenched at the silken neckerchief he wore as though it choked him.

“No!” he cried, “you ain’t a-goin’ t’ get no wedding, Hermy; he don’t mean t’ give ye a square deal. He’s foolin’ ye—foolin’ ye, girl! Oh,” said he through shut teeth, “ye thought I was safe out o’ the way, I guess. You ought t’ known better; th’ p’lice couldn’t hold me, they never will. Anyway, I’ve kept tabs on ye—I know as you’ve been meeting him—in a wood! I know,” here M’Ginnis seemed to choke again, “I know of you an’ him—kissin’ an’ cuddlin’—oh, I’ve kept tabs on ye—”

“Yes,” she said gently, “I saw your spy at work.”

“But y’ can’t deny it. Y’ don’t deny it! Say, what kind o’ girl are you?”

“The kind that doesn’t fear men like you.”

“But y’ can’t deny meetin’ him,” he repeated, his hoarse voice quivering; “you don’t deny—kissin’ him—in a wood! Only deny it, Hermy, only say you didn’t, an’ I’ll choke th’ life out of any guy as says you did—only deny it, Hermy.”

“But I don’t want to deny it. If your spy had ears he can tell you that we are going to be married. Now go.”

Once more M’Ginnis reached up to his throat and trenched off the neckerchief altogether.

“Married!” he cried, “an’ t’ him! He’s foolin’ ye, Hermy, by God he is! Girl, I’m tellin’ ye straight an’ true—he’ll never marry ye. His kind don’t marry Tenth Av’ner girls—Nooport an’ Fifth Av’ner’s a good ways from Hell’s Kitchen an’ Tenth Av’ner, an’ they can’t ever come t’gether, I reckon.”

“Ah!” sighed she, falling back a step, “what do you mean?”

“Why, I mean,” said M’Ginnis, twisting the neckerchief in his powerful hands much as if it had been the neck of some enemy, “I mean as this guy as comes here bluffin’ about bein’ down an’ out, this guy as plays at sellin’ peanuts is—Geoffrey Ravenslee, the millionaire.”

“But—he is—Arthur’s friend!”

“Friend—nothin’!” said he, wringing and wrenching at the neckerchief, “I guess you ain’t found out how th’ Kid an’ him came t’ meet, eh? Well, I’ll tell ye—listen! Your brother broke in to this millionaire’s swell house—through the winder—an’ this millionaire caught him.”

“Oh,” said she, smiling in bitter scorn, “what a clumsy liar you are, Bud M’Ginnis!”

“No,” he cried eagerly, “no, I ain’t tellin’ ye no lies; it’s God’s own truth I’m givin’ ye.”

“No, you’re just a liar, Bud M’Ginnis!” and she would have turned from him, but his savage grip stayed her.

“A liar, am I?” he cried. “Why, then, you’re sister to a crook, see! Your brother’s a thief! a crook! You ain’t got much t’ be s’ proud over—”

“Let me go!”

“Listen! Your brother got into this guy’s house t’ steal, and this millionaire guy caught him—in the act! An’ havin’ nothin’ better t’ do, he makes young Spike bring him down here—just t’ see th’ kind o’ folks as lives in Hell’s Kitchen, see? Then he meets you—you look kind o’ good t’ him, so he says t’ th’ Kid, ‘Look here,’ he says, ‘you help me game along with y’r sister, an’ we’ll call it quits—’”

Breaking from his hold, Hermione entered the little parlour, and sinking down beside the table, crouched there, hiding her face, while M’Ginnis, leaning in the doorway, watched her, his strong hands twisting and wrenching at the neckerchief.

“Ah, leave me now!” she pleaded, “you’ve done enough, so—go now—go!”

“Oh, I’ll go. I come here t’ put ye wise—an’ I have! You’re on to it all now, I guess. Nooport and Fifth Av’ner’s a good ways from Hell’s Kitchen and Tenth Av’ner, an’ they can’t never come together. I guess there’s sure some difference between this swell guy with all his millions an’ a Tenth Av’ner girl as is a—thief’s sister—”

Slowly Hermione lifted her head and looked up at him, and M’Ginnis saw that in her face which struck him mute; the neckerchief fell from his nerveless fingers and lay there all unheeded.

“Hermione,” he muttered, “I—girl, are ye—sick?”

“Go!” she whispered, “go!”

And turning about, M’Ginnis stumbled out of the place and left her alone. For a long time she sat there, motionless and crouched above the table, staring blindly before her, and in her eyes an agony beyond tears, heedless of the flight of time, conscious only of a pain sharper than flesh can know. Suddenly a key was thrust in the lock of the outer door, footsteps sounded along the passage accompanied by a merry whistling, and Spike appeared.

“Hello, Hermy, ain’t tea ready yet?” he enquired, tossing aside his straw hat and opening a newspaper he carried, “say, the Giants are sure playin’ great ball this season—what, are ye asleep?”

“No, dear!”

“Why, Hermy,” he exclaimed, dropping the paper and clasping an arm about her, “Oh, Hermy—what is it?”

“Oh, boy—dear, dear boy—you didn’t, did you?” she cried feverishly. “You are a little wild—sometimes, dear, just a little—but you are good—and honourable, aren’t you?”

“Why, yes, Hermy I—I try t’ be,” he answered uneasily; “but I don’t know what you mean.”

“You’re not a thief, are you? You’re not a burglar? You never broke into any one’s house. I know you didn’t, but—tell me you didn’t—tell me you didn’t!”

“No—no, o’ course not,” stammered Spike and, averting his head, tried to draw away, but she clung to him all the closer.

“Boy—boy dear,” she whispered breathlessly, “oh, boy, look at me!”

But seeing he kept his face still turned from her, she set a hand to his cheek and very gently forced him to meet her look. For a long moment she gazed thus—saw how his eyes quailed, saw how his cheek blanched, and as he cowered away, she rose slowly to her feet, and into her look came a growing horror; beholding which Spike covered his face and shrank away from her.

“Oh, boy—” her voice had sunk to a whisper now, “oh, boy—say you didn’t!”

“Hermy—I—can’t—”

“Can’t?”

“It’s—it’s all—true. Yes, I did! Oh, Hermy, forgive me.”

“Tell me!”

“Oh, forgive me, Hermy, forgive me!” he cried, reaching out and trying to catch her hand. “Yes, I’ll tell ye. I—I got in—through th’ winder, an’ Geoff caught me. But he let me go again—he said he’d never tell nobody if—ah, don’t look at me like that!”

“If—what?”

“If I’d bring him back here with me—Hermy, don’t! Your eyes hurt me—don’t look at me that way.”

“So it—is—all—true!”

“Oh, forgive me, forgive me!” he pleaded, throwing himself on his knees before her and writhing in the anguish of remorse. “They doped me, Hermy, I—didn’t know what I was doin’—they didn’t give me no time t’ think. Oh, forgive me, Hermy; Geoff forgave me, an’ you must—oh, God, you must, Hermy!” Again he sought to reach her hand, but now it was she who shrank away.

“I loved you so—I—loved—you so!” she said dully.

“Hermy,” he cried, catching hold of her dress, “forgive me—just this once, for God’s sake! I ain’t got nobody in the world but you—forgive me!” And now his pleading was broken by fierce sobs, and he sought to hide his tear-stained face in the folds of her dress, but she drew it quickly from him, shrinking away almost as if she feared him.

“A thief!” she whispered, “oh, God—my brother a thief! I don’t seem—able to—think. Go away—go away, I—must be—alone!”

“Hermy, dear, I swear—oh, I swear I’ll—”

“Go away!”

“Oh, Hermy, I didn’t think you’d ever—turn away—from me.”

“Go away!”

“Oh, Hermy—won’t you listen?”

“I can’t! Not now. Go away.”

Sobbing, the boy got to his feet, and taking his hat, crossed slow-footed to the door; there he paused to look back at her, but her staring eyes gazed through him and, turning hopelessly away, he brushed his sleeve across his cheek and, treading slow and heavily along the passage, was gone.

Dry-eyed she stood awhile, then sank again beside the table and crouched there with face bowed between outstretched arms, and hands tight clenched. Evening began to fall, but still she sat huddled there, motionless, and uttering no sound, and still her eyes were tearless. At last she stirred, conscious of a quick, firm step near by, and, thrilling to that sound, rose and stood with her back to the fading light as Ravenslee entered.

“Dear,” said he, tender and eager, “I found the door open—did you leave it for me? Why, Hermione—oh, my love, what is it?” and he would have caught her to him, but she held him away and questioned him, quick-breathing:

“You are—Geoffrey Ravenslee—the millionaire—aren’t you?”

“Why—er—I—I’m afraid I am,” he stammered. “I’m sorry you found it out so soon, dearest; I wanted to tell you after we—”

“Oh, why didn’t you tell me before—why didn’t you? No—please wait! You—you caught my—brother, didn’t you?” she went on breathlessly; “he had broken in—was burgling your house, wasn’t he—wasn’t he?”

“How in the world,” began Ravenslee, flinching, “who told—”

“He broke into your house to—steal, didn’t he—didn’t he?”

“But, good heavens—that was all forgotten and done with long ago! They’d made the poor chap drunk—he didn’t know what he was doing—it’s all forgotten long ago! Dear heart, why are you so pale? God, Hermione—nothing can alter our love!”

“No, nothing can alter our love,” she repeated in the same dull tones. “Oh, no, nothing can ever alter that; even though you deceived me I shall always love you, I can’t help it. And just because I do love you so, and because I am a thief’s sister, I—oh, I can never be your wife—I couldn’t, could I?”

“By God, Hermione, but you shall!” As he spoke he caught her in his arms, passionate arms that drew and held her close. Very still and unresisting she lay in his embrace, uttering no word; and stooping, he kissed her fiercely—her lips, her eyes, her white throat, her hair, and, silent still, she yielded herself to his caresses.

“You are mine, Hermione, mine always and forever! You are the one woman I long for—the wife nature intended for me! You are mine, Hermione!”

Very softly she answered, her eyes closed:

“I felt at the first there was a gulf dividing us—and now—this gulf is wider—so wide it can never be crossed by either of us. Your world is not my world, after all—you are Geoffrey Ravenslee and I am only—what I am. Newport and Fifth Avenue are a long way from Hell’s Kitchen and Tenth Avenue, and they can never—never come together. And I—am a thief’s sister, so please, please loose me—oh, have mercy and—let me go.”

His arms fell from her and, shivering, she sank beside the table, and the pale agony of her face smote him.

“But you love me, Hermione?” he pleaded.

“If I had only known,” she sighed, “I might not have learned to love you—quite so much! If I had only known!” Her voice was soft and low, her blue eyes wide and tearless, and because of this, he trembled.

“Hermione,” said he gently, “all this week I have been planning for you and Arthur. I have been dreaming of our life together, yours and mine, a life so big, so wonderful, so full of happiness that I trembled, sometimes, dreading it was only a dream. Dear, the gates of our paradise are open; will you shut me out? Must I go back to my loneliness?”

“I shall be lonely, too!” she murmured brokenly. “But better, oh, far better loneliness than that some day—” she paused, her lips quivering.

“Some day, Hermione?”

“You should find that you had married not only a scrubwoman but—the sister of a—thief!” Suddenly she sprang to her feet, her clinging arms held him to her bosom and, drawing down his head, she pressed her mouth to his; holding him thus, she spoke, her voice low and quick and passionate:

“Oh, my love, my love! I do love you with every thought, with every part of me—so much, so very much that my heart is breaking, I think. But, dearest, my love is such that I would be everything fair and beautiful for you, everything proud and good and noble for you if I could. But I am only Hermy Chesterton, a Tenth Avenue girl, and—my brother—So I’m going to send you away, back to your own world, back to your own kind because—because I do love you so! Ah, God, never doubt my love, but—you must go—”

“Never, Hermione, never!”

“You must! You will, I know, because your love is a big, generous love—because you are chivalrous and strong and gentle—because I beg and implore you if you have any pity for me—go—”

“But why?—Why?”

“Oh, must I tell you that—can’t you understand?”

“Why must I go, Hermione?”

“Because,” she murmured, her yearning arms close about him, her face close hidden against his breast, “because I’ll never—marry you—now—but I love you—love you so much that I’m afraid—ah, not of you. So, I must be alone—quite alone—to fight my battle. And now—now that I’ve shown you all my heart, told you all my weakness, you’ll go for my sake—just for my sake—won’t you?”

“Yes—I’ll—go!” he answered slowly.

“Away from here—to-night?”

“Yes,” he answered hoarsely, “yes!”

Then Hermione fell suddenly before him on her knees, and, before he could stay her, had caught his hands, kissing them, wetting them with her tears, and pressing them passionately to her bosom.

“I knew,” she cried, “I knew that you were strong and gentle and—good. Good-by—oh, my love—good-by!”

“Hermione,” said he, kissing her bowed head, “oh, my Hermione, I love you with a love that will die only when I do. I want you, and I’ll never lose hope of winning you—some day, never give up my determination to marry you—never, so help me God!”

Then swiftly he turned away but, reaching the door, stooped and picked up M’Ginnis’s neckerchief and, recognising it, crumpled it in fierce hand; so, with it clenched in griping fingers, he hurried away and left her there upon her knees.

CHAPTER XXX

HOW GEOFFREY RAVENSLEE DEPARTED FROM HELL’S KITCHEN

“What, back again already, Mr. Geoffrey?” exclaimed Mrs. Trapes, poking her head around the kitchen door, as Ravenslee entered the flat, “back so soon?”

“Only for a minute, Mrs. Trapes.”

“Supper’ll be ready soon—your wedding supper, eh, Mr. Geoffrey? You’ll have it here with me, you an’ Hermy, o’ course! Smells kind o’ good, don’t it?”

“Delicious, Mrs. Trapes!”

“Delicious is the word, Mr. Geoffrey—stooed beef with carrots—”

“And onions, Mrs. Trapes—onions, I’m sure?”

“Well, I’ll not deny a onion here an’ there, Mr. Geoffrey—a stoo needs ‘em.”

“Ah, I knew it!” sighed Ravenslee. “I grieve that I shan’t be able to eat it.”

“Not eat—what, you? Say, y’ ain’t sick, are you?”

“Not in body, Mrs. Trapes.”

“Then why no stoo?”

“Because I shan’t be here. I’m going, Mrs. Trapes—I’m leaving Mulligan’s now—for good—”

“Leavin’—y’ mean with Hermy?”

“No—alone. Good-by, Mrs. Trapes!”

“My land!” gasped Mrs. Trapes, “what you tellin’ me?”

“Good-by, Mrs. Trapes!”

“But why? Oh, dear Lord, what is it? Who—”

“I want to thank you—for all your kindness. Good-by!”

As one in a dream Mrs. Trapes extended a limp hand and stood wide of eye and pale of cheek to watch him go; and as he descended the stairs, her look of helpless, pained surprise went with him. Swiftly he strode across that familiar court, shoulders squared, chin outthrust, and eyes that glowed ominously in his pale face beneath fierce-scowling brows. As he turned into Tenth Avenue there met him the Spider.

“What you chasin’ this time, bo?” he enquired.

“M’Ginnis.”

“Then you’re sure chasin’ trouble.”

“That’s what I want. D’ you know where he is?”

“Sure I do, but—”

The Spider paused, drawing in his breath slowly, as with experienced gaze he viewed Ravenslee’s pale, set face—the delicate nostrils wide and quivering, the relentless mouth and burning eyes and all the repressed ferocity of him and, drawing back a step, the Spider shook his head.

“Bo,” said he, “that’s jest what I ain’t goin’ t’ tell ye.”

“Very well, I must find him.”

“Don’t!” said the Spider, walking on beside him, “if I didn’t think a whole lot o’ ye, I’d lead ye t’ him.”

“Oh—I shall find him, if it takes me all night.”

“An’ if ye do, it’ll be murder, I’m dead sure—”

“Murder?” said Ravenslee with a flash of white teeth. “Well, I shall certainly kill him—this time!”

“Is it th’ Kid again?”

“No—oh, no, it’s just for my own satisfaction—and pleasure.”

“You ain’t heeled, are ye? This ain’t goin’ t’ be no gun-play—eh?”

“No, I haven’t a gun, but I’ve brought his—neckerchief.”

“Sufferin’ Pete!” murmured the Spider in a strangely awed voice, and walked on in silence, chewing viciously.

“Bo,” said he at last, “I’m thinkin’ th’ kindest thing I could do would be t’ slip one over t’ your point while you wasn’t lookin’, an’ puttin’ you t’ sleep a bit—you want soothin’! Bud’ll be too big fer you or any other guy t’ tackle now; ye see, his stock’s rose—th’ Noo Jersey p’lice wasn’t strong enough t’ hold him—”

“That’s where I’m different—I can!” said Ravenslee, opening and shutting his right hand convulsively. “Yes, I’ll hold him till his last kick—and after!”

“My God!” exclaimed the Spider softly, and, beholding that clutching right hand, he edged away.

“Where you goin’ t’ look fer him?” he enquired after a while.

“O’Rourke’s!”

“Why not try Raynor’s first?” and he nodded to a saloon on the adjacent corner.

“Because I’m not a fool.”

“Bo, I ain’t s’ sure o’ that! O’Rourke’s’ll be full o’ tough guys t’night; all th’ bunch’ll be there, an’ if Bud tips ‘em th’ say-so, they’ll snuff your light out quicker ‘n winkin’.”

“That wouldn’t be such a hardship.”

“Oh, so that’s it, hey? You got a kiss-me-an’-let-me-die sort o’ feelin’, hey? Some nice bit o’ stuff been turnin’ ye down, bo?”

“That’ll be about enough!” said Ravenslee, quick and fierce; and, meeting the flash of his eye, the Spider edged away again.

“Sufferin’ Mike!” said he, “you sure ain’t doin’ the affable chat stunt t’night!”

But Ravenslee strode along in silence, and the Spider, heeding the pale, set ferocity of his expression, grew troubled.

“Say,” said he at last, “this don’t happen t’ be th’ night as you’ve fixed up t’ smash th’ gang, does it?”

“No—only M’Ginnis.”

“S’posin’ he ain’t at O’Rourke’s?”

“He’ll be somewhere else.”

“Bo, if I was your ma, I should be prayin’ you don’t find Bud, yes, sir! An’ I should pray—dam’ hard!”

By this time they had reached Eleventh Avenue and were close upon the saloon when Ravenslee halted suddenly, for, beneath a lamp on the opposite sidewalk, he saw M’Ginnis in talk with two other men.

Drawing the neckerchief from his pocket, Ravenslee crossed over and tapped M’Ginnis on the arm, who, turning about, stared into a pallid face within a foot of his own.

“What th’ hell—” he began, but Ravenslee cut him short.

“You left this behind you,” said he, thrusting forward the neckerchief, “so I’ve brought it to twist around that foul throat of yours. Now, M’Ginnis—fight!”

Thrusting the neckerchief into his pocket, Ravenslee clenched his fists, and, saying no more, they closed and fought—not as men, but rather as brute beasts eager to maim and rend.

M’Ginnis’s companions, dumbfounded by the sudden ferocity of it all, stood awhile inactive, staring at those two forms that lurched and swayed, that strove and panted, grimly speechless. Then, closing in, they waited an opportunity to smite down M’Ginnis’s foe from behind. But the Spider was watching, and, before either of them could kick or strike, his fists thudded home—twice—hard blows aimed with scientific precision; after which, having dragged the fallen away from those fierce-trampling feet, he stood, quivering and tense, to watch that desperate encounter.

Once Ravenslee staggered back from a vicious flush-hit, and once M’Ginnis spun around to fall upon hands and knees; then they clenched, and coming to the ground together, fought there, rolling to and fro and hideously twisted together. But slowly Ravenslee’s clean living began to tell, and M’Ginnis, wriggling beneath a merciless grip, uttered inarticulate cries and groaned aloud. And now the deadly neckerchief was about his gasping throat and in his ears his conqueror’s fierce laugh—lost all at once in a roar of voices, a rush of trampling feet.

Wrenched at by fierce hands, smitten by unseen fists, Ravenslee was beaten down—was dimly aware of the Spider’s long legs bestriding him, and staggering up through a tempest of blows, hurled himself among his crowding assailants, felled one with his right, stopped another with his left, and, as the press broke to the mad fury of his onslaught, felt his hand wrenched from a man’s windpipe and heard a frantic voice that panted:

“Leg it, bo, leg it. Hully Chee! ain’t ye had enough?” So, mechanically, he set off at a run, with his arm still gripped by the Spider. “Leg it, bo—leg it good, or here’s where we snuff it sure! This way—round th’ corner; only keep goin’, bo, keep goin’.”

Very fleetly they ran with their pursuers close on their heels, across open lots, over fences, along tortuous alleys, until the rush and patter of the many feet died away, and the Spider, pulling up at the corner of a dismal, narrow street hard by the river, stood awhile to listen.

“Jiminy Christmas! but you’re some hot stuff at the swattin’ business—you’re a glutton, you are, bo. I been in one or two scraps meself, but I never seen a guy so hungry for—”

“Where are we?”

“Thirteenth an’ Twentieth.”

“Are we safe?”

“F’ th’ time, I reckon. But all Hell’s Kitchen’ll be out after us t’night, sure. So I guess it’s us for th’ immediate hike—”

“Us? Will they be after you, too?”

“Well,” said the Spider, smiling down grimly at his damaged, knuckles, “I guess yes! Hell’s Kitchen an’ Tenth Av’ner’s got t’ get along without me from now on, I reckon. They ain’t losin’ much, an’ I ain’t leavin’ much, but—”

“Why the devil had you got to follow me to-night?” demanded Ravenslee, scowling.

“Bo,” said the Spider as they went on again, “there’s times when my likin’ f’r you gets a pain; there’s times when y’r talk gives me th’ earache, an’ y’r lovin’ looks the willies. I ain’t lookin’ f’r no gratitood, nor yet a gold dinner-set an’ loominated address, but, not ownin’ a hide like a sole-leather Saratoga, I’ll jest get on me way—S’ long!”

“Where are you going?”

“I dunno, but—I’m goin’ there, right now.”

But as the Spider turned away, his hand was caught and gripped, and Ravenslee was smiling; his features looked a bit battered, but his smile was pleasant as ever.

“Forgive my cursed temper, Spider. I owe you my life again and—I ought to be grateful, I suppose. Forgive me, I’m—not quite myself to-night.”

“Sure thing!” said the Spider, returning his grasp, “but, bo, I’m kind o’ wonderin’ in me little mind what Bud’s feelin’ like! You sure swatted him good an’ heavy. I never seen cleaner footwork, an’ them left jabs o’ yours—”

“The question is, how do you feel, Spider, and what are you going to do?”

The pugilist scratched his rough chin. “Well, that’s what gets my goat; I dunno quite, bo. Y’ see, I shan’t be able t’ get no more fights here in the East now, not wi’ Bud ‘n’ his old man against me—y’ see, Bud’s old man’s about the biggest—”

“I wonder if you’d care to come with me?”

“Whaffor?”

“Well, for one thing, I need another chauffeur and—”

“A—what?” The Spider halted under a lamp-post to stare at Ravenslee a little anxiously. “Say, now, take a holt of ye’self an’ jest put that one over th’ plate again—you need a—what?”

“Another chauffeur.”

“Another shuvver—another? Bo, y’ didn’t happen t’ get a soak on th’ bean just now, did ye?”

“No.”

“Well, then, I guess you’re some shook up; what you want’s food, right now!”

“Why, yes, now you mention it, I’m devilish hungry,” agreed Ravenslee.

“Leave it t’ me, bo—I know a chewin’-joint close by—soup, joint, sweets, an’ coffee an’ only a quarter a throw—some feed, bo! Shin right along, I’ll—”

“No, you shall come home and dine with me.”

“Home?” repeated the Spider, halting to stare again; “you’re sure talkin’ ramblin’—”

“We can discuss the chauffeur’s job then—”

“Shuvver?” said the Spider uneasily. “But what’s a guy like you want with a shuvver?”

“Well, to drive my car—and—”

“Car?” said the Spider, his uneasiness growing, “got a car now, have ye, bo?”

“I rather think I’ve got six.”

“Sufferin’ Sam!” The Spider scratched his chin while his keen eyes roved over Ravenslee’s exterior apprehensively. “Say, bo, you quite sure none o’ th’ bunch booted you on th’ dome—eh?”

“Quite sure.”

“An’ yet you got six auter-mobiles. I say—you think so.”

“Now I think again, they’re seven with the newest racer.”

“Say, now, jest holt still a minute! Now, swaller twice, think dam’ hard, an’ tell me again! You got how many?”

“Seven!”

“Got anythin’ else?”

“Oh, yes, a few things.”

“Tell us jest one.”

“Well, a yacht.”

“Oh, a yacht?”

“A yacht.”

“‘S ‘nuff, bo, ‘s ‘nuff! But go on—go on, get it all off if you’ll feel better after. Anythin’ more?”

“Why, yes, about twenty or thirty houses and castles and palaces and things—”

“That settles it sure!” sighed the Spider. “You’re comin’ t’ see a doctor, that’s what! Your dome’s sure got bent in with a boot or somethin’.”

“No, Spider, I just happen to be born the son of a millionaire, that’s all.”

“Think o’ that, now!” nodded the Spider, “a millionaire now—how nice! An’ what do they call ye at home?”

“Geoffrey Ravenslee.”

“How much?” exclaimed the Spider, falling back a step. “The guy as went ten rounds with Dick Dunoon at th’ ‘National?’ The guy as won th’ Auter-mobile Race? Th’ guy as bought up Mulligan’s—you?”

“Why, yes. By the way, I sat in the front row and watched you lick Larry McKinnon at ‘Frisco; I was afraid you were going to recognise me, once or twice.”

“Then, you—you have got a yacht, th’ big one as lays off Twenty-third Street?”

“Also seven cars; that’s why I want you for a chauffeur.”

“Ho-ly Gee!” murmured the dazed Spider. “Well, say, you sure have got me goin’! A millionaire! A peanut cart! A yacht! Well, say, I—I guess it’s time I got on me way. S’ long!”

“No you don’t, my Spider; you’re coming home with me.”

“What—me? Not much I ain’t—no, sir! I ain’t no giddy gink t’ go dinin’ with millionaires in open-faced clo’es—not me!”

“But you’re coming to have dinner with that same peanut man who learned to respect you because you were a real, white man, Spider Connolly. And that’s another reason why I want you for my chauffeur.”

“But—say, I—I can’t shuv.”

“Joe shall teach you.”

“Joe? Y’ mean—Joe Madden?”

“He’ll be chauffeur number one—and there’s a cross-town car! Come on, Spider! Now—in with you!”

CHAPTER XXXI

IN WHICH SOAPY TAKES A HAND

O’Rourke’s was full: its long bar, shaped something like the letter J, supported many lounging arms and elbows; its burnished foot-rail was scraped by boots of many shapes and sizes; its heavy air, thick with cigarette smoke, hummed with many voices. In one corner, a remote corner where few ventured to penetrate, Soapy leaned, as pallid and noncommittal as ever, while Spike poured out to him the story of his woes.

“She drove me out, Soapy! She drove me away from her!” he repeated for the hundredth time. The boy was unnaturally flushed and bright of eye, and his voice was as shaky as the hand which fidgeted with his whisky glass; and the sense of his wrongs was great and growing greater with every sip.

“She told me t’ leave her! She drove me away from her—”

“So you come here, eh, Kid?” drawled Soapy, pendent cigarette smouldering. “You skinned over here t’ Bud f’ comfort, an’ you’ll sure get it, Kid—in a glass!”

“Bud’s always good t’ me—”

“‘S right, Kid, ‘s right, Bud’s an angel sure, though he ain’t got no wings yet. Oh, Bud’ll comfort ye—frequent, an’ by an’ by he’ll take ye back t’ Hermy good an’ soused; you can get your own back that ways—eh, Kid? It’ll sure make her sit up an’ take notice when she sees ye come in reelin’ an’ staggerin’—eh, Kid? An’ to-morrow you’ll be sick mebbe, an’ she’ll have ter nurse ye—oh, Bud’ll fix things fer ye, I guess.” Spike glowered and pushed his half-emptied glass further away.

“I ain’t goin’ home soused!” he muttered.

“No?” said Soapy, faintly surprised. “Bud’ll feel kind o’ hurt, won’t he?”

“I ain’t goin’ home soused—not for Bud nor nobody else!”

“Why, then, if I was you, Kid, I should beat it before Bud comes in.”

“I guess I will,” said Spike, rising.

But now was sudden uproar of voices in the street hard by, a running and trampling of feet, and, the swing doors opening, a group of men appeared, bearing among them a heavy burden; and coming to the quiet corner they laid M’Ginnis there. Battered, bloody, and torn he lay, his handsome features swollen and disfigured, his clothes dusty and dishevelled, while above him and around him men stooped and peered and whispered.

“Why, it’s—it’s—Bud!” stammered Spike, shrinking away from that inanimate form, “my God! It’s—Bud!”

“‘S right, Kid!” nodded Soapy imperturbably, hands in pockets and, though his voice sounded listless as ever, his eyes gleamed evilly, and the dangling cigarette quivered and stirred.

“Ain’t—dead, is he?” some one questioned.

“Dead—not much!” answered Soapy, “guess it’s goin’ to take more ‘n that t’ make Bud a stiff ‘un. Besides, Bud ain’t goin’ t’ die that way, no, not—that way, I reckon. Dead? Watch this!” So saying, he reached Spike’s half-emptied glass from the bar and, not troubling to stoop, poured the raw spirit down upon M’Ginnis’s pale, blood-smirched face.

“Dead?” said Soapy. “Well, I guess not—look at him!”

And, sure enough, M’Ginnis stirred, groaned, opened swollen eyelids and, aided by some ready arm, sat up feebly. Then he glanced up at the ring of peering faces and down upon his rent and dusty person, and fell to a sudden, fierce torrent of curses; cursing thus, his strength seemed to return all at once, for he sprang to his feet and with clenched fists drove through the crowd, and lifting a flap in the bar, opened a door beyond and was gone.

“No,” said Soapy, shaking his head, “I guess Bud ain’t dead—yet, fellers. I wonder who gave him that eye, Kid? An’ his mouth too! Did ye pipe them split lips! Kind o’ painful, I guess. An’ a couple o’ teeth knocked out too! Some punchin’, Kid! An’ Bud kind o’ fancied them nice, white teeth of his a whole heap!”

Here the bartender glanced toward the corner where they stood, and, lifting an eyebrow, jerked his thumb at the door behind him with the words: “Kid, I reckon Bud wants ye.”

For a moment Spike hesitated then, lifting the mahogany flap, crossed the bar, and opened the door.

“Guess I’ll come along, Kid,” and, hands in pockets, Soapy followed.

They found M’Ginnis sprawling at a table and scowling at the knuckles of his bruised right hand while at his elbow were a bottle and two glasses. He had washed the blood and dirt from him, had brushed and straightened his dusty garments, but he couldn’t hide the cuts and bruises that disfigured his face, nor his scratched and swollen throat.

“What you here for?” he demanded, as Soapy closed the door, “didn’t send for you, did I?”

“No, that’s why I come, Bud.”

“But, say, Bud, what—what’s been th’ matter?” stammered Spike, his gaze upon M’Ginnis’s battered face, “who’s been—”

“Matter? Nothin’! I had a bit of a rough-house as I come along—”

“‘S right,” nodded Soapy, “you sure look it! Never seen a fatter eye—”

“Well, what you got t’ beef about?”

“Nothin’, Bud, only—”

“Only what?”

“It’s kind o’ tough you losin’ them couple o’ teeth—or is it three?”

M’Ginnis turned on him with a snarl. “A-r-r-, you—! Some day I’m goin’ t’ kick the insides out o’ ye!”

“Some day, Bud, sure. I’ll be waitin’! Meantime why not get some doctor-guy t’ put ye face back in shape—gee, I hate t’ see ye—you look like a butcher’s shop! An’ them split lips pains some, I guess!”

Here, while M’Ginnis choked in impotent rage, Soapy lit a fresh cigarette from the butt of the last and held out the packet.

“Try a coffin-nail, Bud? No? Well, I guess y’ couldn’t smoke good with a mouth on ye like that.”

“Who did it, Bud?” questioned Spike eagerly. “Who was it?”

“Hush up, Kid, hush up!” said Soapy, viewing M’Ginnis’s cuts and bruises with glistening eyes. “I guess that guy’s layin’ around somewheres waitin’ f’r th’ coroner—Bud wouldn’t let him make such a holy mess of his face an’ get away with it—not much! Bud’s a killer, I know that—don’t I, Bud?”

“You close up that dog’s head o’ yours, Soapy, or by—”

“‘S all right, Bud, ‘s all right. Don’t get peeved; I’ll close up tighter ‘n a clam, only—it’s kinder tough about them teeth—”

“Are ye goin’ t’ cut it out or shall—”

“Aw, calm down, Bud, calm down! Take a drink; it’ll do ye good.” And filling a glass with rye whisky, Soapy set it before M’Ginnis, who cursed him, took it up, and turned to Spike.

“Fill it up, Kid,” he commanded.

“Not me, Bud, I—I ain’t here for that,” said Spike. “I come t’ tell ye as some dirty guy’s been an’ blown th’ game on me t’ Hermy; she—she knows everything, an’ to-night she—drove me away from her—”

“Did she, Kid, oh, did she?” said M’Ginnis, a new note of eagerness in his voice. “Drove ye out onto th’ streets, Kid? That’s dam’ hard on you!”

“Yes, Bud, I—guess she—don’t want me around—”

“Kind o’ looks that way!” nodded M’Ginnis, and filling Spike’s glass, he put it into the boy’s unwilling fingers. “Take a drink, Kid; ye sure need it!” said he.

“‘S right,” murmured Soapy, “told ye Bud ‘ud comfort ye, didn’t I, Kid?”

“So Hermy’s drove ye away?” said M’Ginnis, “throwed ye out—eh?”

“She sure has, Bud, an’ I—Oh, I’m miserable as hell!”

“Why, then, get some o’ Bud’s comfort into ye, Kid,” murmured Soapy. “Lap it up good, Kid; there’s plenty more—in th’ bottle!”

“Let him alone,” growled M’Ginnis, “he don’t want you buttin’ in!”

“‘S right, too, Bud!” nodded Soapy, “he’s got you, ain’t he? An’ you—got him, ain’t you?”

“I didn’t think Hermy ‘ud ever treat me—like this!” said Spike tearfully.

“You mean—throwin’ ye out into th’ streets, Kid? Why, I been expectin’ it!”

“Expectin’ it?” repeated Spike, setting down his glass and staring, “why?”

“Well, she’s a girl, ain’t she, an’ they’re all th’ same, I reckon—”

“An’ Bud knows all about girls, Kid!” murmured Soapy. “Bud’s wise t’ all their tricks—ain’t you, Bud?”

“But whatcher mean?” cried Spike. “What ye mean about expectin’ it?”

“Well, she don’t want ye no more, does she?” answered M’Ginnis, his bruised hands fierce clenched, his voice hoarse and thick with passion. “She’s got some one else now—ain’t she? She’s—in love—ain’t she? She’s all waked up an’ palpitatin’ for—for that dam’—” he choked, and set one hand to his scratched throat.

“What d’ye mean, Bud?”

“Ah!” said Soapy, softer than before, “I’m on, Bud; you put me wise! He means, Kid, as Hermy’s in love with th’ guy as has just been punchin’ hell out of him—he means your pal Geoff.” With a hoarse, strangling cry, M’Ginnis leapt up, his hand flashed behind him, and—he stood suddenly very still, staring into the muzzle of the weapon Soapy had levelled from his hip.

“Aw, quit it, Bud, quit it,” he sighed, “it ain’t come t’ that—yet. Besides, the Kid’s here, so loose ye gun, Bud. No, give it t’me; you’re a bit on edge t’night, I guess, an’ it might go off an’ break a glass or somethin’. So gimme ye gun, Bud. That’s it! Now we can sit an’ talk real sociable, can’t we? Now listen, Bud—what you want is t’ get your own back on this guy Geoff, an’ what th’ Kid wants is t’ show his sister as he ain’t a kid, an’ what I want is t’ give ye both a helpin’ hand—”

But while M’Ginnis stood scowling at the imperturbable speaker, Spike rose, a little unsteadily, and turned to the door.

“I’ll be gettin’ on me way, Bud,” said he.

“Where to?”

“Home.”

“What! Back t’ Hermy? After she turned ye out?”

“But I—I got t’ go somewheres—”

“Well, you stay right here with me, Kid; I’ll fix ye up all right—”

“‘S right, Kid!” nodded Soapy. “Bud’ll fix ye all right, same as I said; we’ll have in another bottle when that’s empty!”

“What about your sister, Kid?” demanded M’Ginnis fiercely. “What about Hermy an’ this swell guy? Are y’ goin’ t’ sit around an’ do nothin’?”

“But Geoff’s goin’ t’ marry her.”

“Marry her! What, him? A millionaire marry your sister? You think so, an’ she thinks so, but I know different!”

“But Hermy ain’t that sort. Hermy’s—good—”

“Sure, but this guy’s got her fazed—she thinks he’s square all right—she’ll trust him an’ then—s’posin’ he ain’t?”

“I—I ain’t s’posin’ nothin’ like that!” said Spike, gulping his whisky.

“Well, s’posin’ he’s been meetin’ her—in a wood—on the sly—eh? S’posin’ they been huggin’ an’ kissin’—”

“Say now—you cut that out—” stammered Spike, his voice thick. “I tell ye—she ain’t—that kind.”

“S’posin’,” continued Bud, refilling the lad’s glass, “s’posin’ I could show ‘em to ye in a wood—eh? Ah! What she want t’ meet him in a wood for, anyway—nice an’ quiet, eh?”

“Say now, Bud, I—I ain’t goin’ t’ listen t’ no more!” said Spike, rising and clutching at the table, “I—I’m goin’ home!” And swaying on unsteady feet, he turned to the door, but M’Ginnis gripped his shoulder.

“Wait a bit, Kid.”

“N-no, I’m—goin’ home—see!” said Spike, setting his jaw obstinately, “I’m goin’—r-right now!”

“That’s just what you ain’t!” snarled M’Ginnis. “Sit down! Hermy’s only a work-girl—don’t forget that, Kid—an’ this guy’s a millionaire. I guess he thinks Hermy’ll do—till he gets tired of her an’—then what?”

“He—told me he’s goin’ t’ marry her!” said Spike slowly, speaking with an effort, “an’ I guess Geoff ain’t a liar. An’ I wanter—go home.”

“Home—after she throwed ye out? Ain’t ye got no pride?”

“Aw, say, Bud,” sighed Soapy, “I guess d’ Kid ain’t soused enough for pride yet; sling another glass int’ him—that’ll fix him good, I reckon.”

“I ain’t g-goin’ t’ drink no more,” said Spike, resting heavy head between his hands, “I guess I’ll b-beat it home, f’lers.”

“Bud,” suggested Soapy, “ain’t it about time you rang in little Maggie on him?”

M’Ginnis whirled upon the speaker, snarling, but Soapy, having lighted another cigarette, nudged Spike with a sharp elbow.

“Kid,” said he, “Bud’s goin’ t’ remind ye of little Maggie Finlay—you remember little Maggie as drowned herself.” Spike lifted a pale face and stared from the placid Soapy to scowling Bud and shrank away.

“Yes,” he whispered hoarsely, “yes—I’ll never forget how she looked—pale, so pale an’ still, an’ th’ water—runnin’ out of her brown curls—I—I’ll never forget—”

“Well,” growled M’Ginnis, “watch out Hermy don’t end th’ same way.”

“No!” cried Spike. “Oh, my God—no!”

“What’s she meetin’ this millionaire in a wood for—on the sly?”

“She don’t! Hermy ain’t like that.”

“I tell ye she does!” cried M’Ginnis, “an’ him kissin’ an’ squeezin’ her an’—nobody by—”

“It’s a lie, Bud—she—she wouldn’t!”