The Definite Object: A Romance of New York

TELLING HOW HE CAME TO HELL'S KITCHEN AT PEEP O' DAY

It was past three o'clock and dawn was at hand as, by devious ways, Spike piloted his companion through that section of New York City which is known to the initiated as "Hell's Kitchen." By dismal streets they went, past silent, squalid houses and tall tenements looming grim and ghostly in the faint light; crossing broad avenues very silent and deserted at this hour, on and on until, dark and vague and mysterious, the great river flowed before them only to be lost again as they plunged into a gloomy court where tall buildings rose on every hand, huge and very silent, teeming with life—but life just now wrapped in that profound quietude of sleep which is so much akin to death. Into one of these tall tenement buildings, its ugliness rendered more ugly by the network of iron fire-escape ladders that writhed up the face of it, Spike led the way, first into a dark hallway and thence up many stairs that echoed to their light-treading feet—on and up, past dimly lit landings where were doors each of which shut in its own little world, a world distinct and separate wherein youth and age, good and evil, joy and misery, lived and moved and had their being; behind these dingy panels were smiling hope and black despair, blooming health and pallid sickness, and all those sins and virtues that go to make up the sum total of humanity.

Something of all this was in Geoffrey Ravenslee's mind as he climbed the dingy, interminable stair behind Spike, who presently halted to get his wind and whisper:

"It ain't much further now, Geoff, only another two flights and—" He stopped suddenly to listen, and from the landing above a sound reached them, a sound soft but unmistakable—a woman's muffled sobbing.

Slowly, cautiously, they mounted the stair until in the dim light of a certain landing they beheld a slim figure bowed upon its knees in an agony of abasement before a scarred and dingy door. Even as they stared, the slender, girlish figure sobbed again, and, with a sudden, yearning gesture, lifted a face, pale in the half-light, and kissed that battered door; thereafter, weeping still, she rose to her feet and turned, but seeing Spike, stood very still all at once and with hands clasped tight together.

"Holy Gee!" exclaimed Spike beneath his breath; then, in a hoarse whisper: "Is that Maggie—Maggie Finlay?"

"Oh—is that you, Arthur?" she whispered back. "Arthur—oh, Arthur, I, I'm going away, but I couldn't go without coming to—to kiss dear mother good-by—and now I'm here I daren't knock for fear of—father. I've been up to your door and knocked, but Hermy's away, I guess. Anyway, you—you'll say I came to thank her and—kiss her for the last time, won't you, Arthur?"

"Sure I will—but where ye goin', Maggie?"

"A long way, Arthur! I don't s'pose I shall ever—see this place any more—or you—so, Arthur, will you—kiss me good-by—just once?"

Spike hesitated, but she, quick and light-treading, came down to him and caught his hand and would have kissed that, but he snatched it away and, leaning forward, kissed her tear-stained cheek, and blushed thereafter despite the dark.

"Good-by, Arthur!" she whispered, "and thank you—and dear Hermy—oh, good-by!" So saying, she hurried on past Ravenslee, down the dark stairway, while Spike leaned over the balustrade to whisper:

"Good-by, Maggie—an' good luck, Kid!" At this she paused to look up at him with great, sad eyes—a long, wistful look, then, speaking no more, hurried on down the stair—down, down into the shadows, and was gone.

"We used to go to school together, Geoff," the boy explained a little self-consciously, "she never—kissed me before; she ain't the kissin' sort. I wonder why she did it to-night? I wonder—"

So saying, Spike turned and led the way on again until they reached the landing above, across which two doors, dark and unlovely, seemed to scowl upon each other. One of these Spike proceeded to open with a latchkey, and so led Ravenslee into the dark void beyond. Spike struck a match and lighted the gas, and, looking about him, Ravenslee stared.

A little, cramped room, sparsely furnished yet dainty and homelike, for the small, deal table hid its bare nakedness beneath a dainty cloth; the two rickety armchairs veiled their faded tapestry under chintz covers, cunningly contrived and delicately tinted to match the cheap but soft-toned drugget on the floor and the self-coloured paper on the walls, where hung two or three inexpensive reproductions of famous paintings; and in all things there breathed an air of refinement wholly unexpected in Hell's Kitchen. Wherefore Mr. Ravenslee, observing all things with his quick glance, felt an ever-growing wonder. But now Spike, who had been clattering plates and dishes in the kitchen hard by, thrust his head around the door to say:

"Oh, Geoff—I don't feel like doin' the shut-eye business, d' you? How about a cup of coffee, an' I daresay I might dig out some eats; what d' ye say?"

"Is this—your sister?" enquired Mr. Ravenslee, taking up a photograph from the little sideboard.

"Yep, that's Hermy all right—taken las' year—does her hair different now. How about some coffee, Geoff?"

"Coffee?" said Mr. Ravenslee, staring at the picture, "coffee—certainly—er—thanks! She has—light hair, Spike?"

"Gold!" said Spike, and vanished; whereupon Mr. Ravenslee laid the photograph on the table, and sitting down, fell to viewing it intently.

A wonderful face, low-browed, deep-eyed, full-lipped. Here was none of smiling prettiness, for these eyes were grave and thoughtful, these lips, despite their soft, voluptuous curves, were firmly modelled like the rounded chin below, and, in all the face, despite its vivid youth, was a vague and wistful sadness.

"Oh, Geoff," called Spike, "d' ye mind having yer coffee à la milko condenso?"

"Milk?" exclaimed Mr. Ravenslee, starting. "Oh—yes—anything will do!"

"Why, hello!" exclaimed Spike, reappearing with a cup and saucer, "still piping off Hermy's photo, Geoff?"

"I'm wondering why she looks so sad?"

"Sad?" repeated Spike, setting down the crockery with a rattle, "Hermy ain't sad; she always looks like that. Y' see, she ain't much on the giggle, Geoff, but she's most always singing, 'cept when her kids is sick or Mulligan calls—"

"What do you mean?"

"Oh, Hermy mothers all the kids around here when they're sick, an' lots o' kids is always getting sick. And when Mulligan comes it's rent day, an' sometimes Hermy's a bit shy on the money—"

"Is she?" said Mr. Ravenslee, frowning.

"You bet she is, Geoff! An' Mulligan's an Irishman an' mean—say, he's the meanest mutt you ever see. A Jew's mean, so's a Chink, but a mean Harp's got 'em both skinned 'way to 'Frisco an' back again! Why, Mulligan's that mean he wouldn't cough up a nickel to see the Statue o' Liberty do a Salomy dance in d' bay. So when the mazuma's shy Hermy worries some—"

"Don't you help her?" demanded Mr. Ravenslee.

"Help her—why, y' see, Geoff, I—I ain't in a steady job yet. But I do my best an'—why, there's d' kettle boilin' at last!" saying which, Spike turned and vanished again, leaving Mr. Ravenslee still staring down at the pictured face. Presently he sank back in his chair, and, lolling thus, looked sleepily at the opposite wall but saw it not, nor heard the clatter of cups and saucers from the kitchen accompanied by Spike's windy whistling; and, as he lounged thus, he spoke softly, and to himself.

"An object!" he murmured.

"Hey, Geoff," Spike called, "this ain't goin' to be no à la carte, hock an' claret feedin' match, nor yet no table-de-hoty eat-fest, but if you can do in some bacon an' eggs, you're on!"

"Why, then," said Mr. Ravenslee, rising and yawning, "count me decidedly 'on.'"

"Then d' you mind givin' me a hand wid d' coffee?"

"Delighted!" and forthwith Mr. Ravenslee stepped out into the kitchen; and there, in a while, upon a rickety table covered with a greasy newspaper, they ate and drank with great relish and gusto, insomuch that Mr. Ravenslee marvelled at his own appetite.

"Say, Geoff," enquired Spike as hunger waned, "how long are you stoppin' at Mulligan's—a week?"

"A week—a month—six months," replied his guest sleepily. "It's all according—"

"Accordin' to what?"

"Well—er—circumstances."

"What circumstances?"

"Circumstances over which I have no control—yet!"

"You don't mean me?" queried Spike, with an anxious expression.

"Lord, no!"

"And you'll never tell nobody that I—that I—"

"Meant to be—a thief?" drawled Mr. Ravenslee. "Not a word!"

Spike flushed, took a gulp of coffee, choked, and fell to sulky silence, while Mr. Ravenslee filled his pipe and yawned.

"Say," demanded Spike at last, "where'll you live while you're here?"

"Oh—somewhere, I suppose; I haven't bothered about where yet."

"Well, I been thinkin' I know where I can fix you up—perhaps!"

"Very kind of you, Spike!"

"There's Mrs. Trapes 'cross d'landing; she lost her lodger last week—mean guy skinned off without paying d' rent—she might take you."

"Across the landing? She'll do!" nodded Mr. Ravenslee.

"But I'm wonderin' if you'll do; she's a holy terror when she likes, Geoff."

"Across the landing? I'll put up with her!" murmured Mr. Ravenslee.

"But, say, you don't know Mrs. Trapes."

"Not yet, Spike."

"Well, she ain't no easy mark, Geoff! Most everybody in Mulligan's is scared of her when she cuts loose; she can talk ye deaf, dumb an' paralysed, she can so. She sure is aces up on d' chin-music, Geoff!"

"But then she lives just opposite, and that circumstance, methinks, doth cover a multitude of—" Mr. Ravenslee yawned again.

"Anyway, it's a sure thing she won't take you if she don't like ye, Geoff."

"Why, then, she must like me!" said Mr. Ravenslee and proceeded to light his pipe; whereupon Spike produced a box of cigarettes, but, in the act of lighting one, paused, and sighing, put it away again.

"I promised d' Spider I wouldn't, Geoff," he explained. "Y' see, I'm sort of in trainin', and Spider says smoke's bad for d' wind, and d' Spider knows."

"Spider?" said Mr. Ravenslee, glancing up, "do you mean Spider Connolly the lightweight?"

"That's d' guy!" nodded Spike.

"Is he a friend of yours?"

"Sure! Him an' Bud M'Ginnis is goin' to get me some good matches soon."

"Boxing matches?"

"That's what they call 'em, Geoff—but there ain't much boxin' to it; real boxin' don't go down wid d' sports, it's d' punch they wanter see—good, stiff wallops as jars a guy an' makes his knees get wobbly—swings and jolts as makes a guy blind an' deaf an' sick. Oh, I been like that, an' I know—an' it ain't all candy t' hear everybody yellin' to the other guy to go in an' finish ye!"

"Does your sister know you fight?"

"Not much, she don't! I guess she'd like me to be a mommer's pet in lace collars an' a velvet suit, an' soft an' pretty in me talk. She's made me promise t' cut out d' tough-spiel, an' so I'm tryin' to—"

"Are you really, Spike?"

"Well—when she's around I do, Geoff!"

"And she doesn't like you to fight, eh?"

"Nope! But y' see—she's only a girl, Geoff!"

"And that's the wonder of it!" nodded Mr. Ravenslee.

"Wonder? What d' ye mean?"

"I mean that all these years she has managed to feed you, and clothe you, and keep a comfortable home for you, and she's—only a girl!"

"Well, and ain't I tryin' to make good?" cried the boy eagerly.

"Are you really, Spike?"

"Sure! There's lots o' money in d' fightin' game, an' I'm fightin' all for Hermy. If ever I get a champ, I'll have money to burn, an' then she'll never be shy on d' dollar question no more, you bet! There'll be no more needlework or Mulligan's for Hermy; it'll be a farm in d' country wid roses climbin' around, an' chickens, an'—an' automobiles, an' servants to come when she pushes d' button—you bet!"

"Is she so fond of the country?"

"Well, I guess yes! An' flowers—Gee, she nearly eats 'em!"

"On the other hand," said Mr. Ravenslee, watching the smoke from his pipe with a dreamy eye, "on the other hand I gather she does not like—Mr. M'Ginnis! I wonder why?"

"You can search me!" answered Spike, shaking his head, "but it's a sure thing she ain't got no use for Bud."

"And yet—you go around with him, Spike."

"But don't I tell ye he's been good t' me! He's goin' t' match me with some top-liners; he says if I can stick it I'll be a champion sure."

"Yes," nodded Mr. Ravenslee, "but when?"

"Oh, Bud's got it all doped out. But say—"

"And in the meantime your sister will go on feeding you and clothing you and—"

"Cheese it, Geoff," cried the boy, flushing. "You make a guy feel like a two-spot in the discard! I told you I'd try to get a steady job, an' so I will—but I ain't goin' to quit the fightin' game for nobody! 'N' say—I'm sleepy. How about it? You can have my bed, or the couch here, or you can get in Hermy's—"

"Thanks, the couch will do, Spike."

"Then I guess it's me for the feathers!" said Spike, rising and stretching, "so long, Geoff!"

And in a while, having finished his pipe and knocked out the ashes, Mr. Ravenslee stretched his long limbs upon the chintz-covered sofa, and, mirabile dictu, immediately fell asleep.

HOW MRS. TRAPES ACQUIRED A NEW LODGER, DESPITE HER ELBOWS

He awoke suddenly and sat up to find the room full of sunshine and Spike standing beside him, a bright-faced, merry-eyed Spike, very spruce and neat as to person.

"Say, Geoff," said he, "I've seen Mrs. Trapes, an' she wants you to go over so she can pipe you off. 'N' say, you're sure up against a catty proposition in her; if you don't hit it off on the spot as soon as she gets her lamps onto you, it'll be nix for you, Geoff, an' nothin' doin'!"

"Lucid!" said Ravenslee, yawning, "and sounds promising!"

"Why, y' see, Geoff, she's got a grouch on because I was out last night, so, if she gives you the gimlet eye at first, just josh her along a bit. Now slick yourself up an' come on." Obediently Mr. Ravenslee arose and having tightened his neckerchief and smoothed his curly hair, crossed the landing and followed Spike into the opposite flat, a place of startling cleanliness as to floors and walls, and everything therein; uncomfortably trim of aspect and direfully ornate as to rugs and carpet and sofa cushions.

Mrs. Trapes herself was elderly; she was also a woman of points, being bony and sharp featured, particularly as to elbows, which were generally bare. Indeed, they might be said to be her most salient and obtrusive features; but her shrewd, sharp eyes held an elusive kindliness at times, and when she smiled, which was very rarely, her elbows and her general sharpness were quite forgotten.

She was awaiting them in her parlour, enthroned in her best easy chair, a chair of green velvet where purple flowers bloomed riotously, her feet firm-planted upon a hearthrug cunningly enwrought with salmon-pink sunflowers. Bolt upright and stiff of back she sat, making the very utmost of her elbows, for her sleeves being rolled high (as was their wont) and her arms being folded within her apron, they projected themselves to left and right in highly threatening fashion. Sphinx-like she sat, very silent and very still, while her sharp eyes roved over Mr. Ravenslee's person from the toes of his boots to the dark hair that curled short and crisp above his brow. Thus she looked him up and she looked him down, viewing each garment in turn; lastly, she lifted her gaze to his face and stared at him—eye to eye.

And eye to eye Mr. Ravenslee, serene and calm as ever, met her look, while Spike, observing her granite-like expression and the fierce jut of her elbows, shuffled, and glanced toward the door. But still Mrs. Trapes glared up at Mr. Ravenslee, and still Mr. Ravenslee glanced down at Mrs. Trapes wholly unabashed, nay—he actually smiled, and, bowing his dark head, spoke in his easy, pleasant voice.

"A beautiful afternoon, Mrs. Trapes!"

Mrs. Trapes snorted.

"This room will suit me—er—admirably."

Mrs. Trapes started slightly, opened her grim lips, shut them again, and—wriggled her elbows.

"Yes, indeed," continued Mr. Ravenslee pleasantly, "I like this room—so nice and bright, like the rug and wall paper—especially the rug. Yes, I like the rug and the—er—stuffed owl in the corner!" and he nodded to a shapeless, moth-eaten something under a glass case against the wall.

Mrs. Trapes wriggled her elbows again and, glaring still, spoke harsh-voiced.

"Young feller, that owl's a parrot!"

"A parrot—of course!" assented Mr. Ravenslee gently, "and a very fine parrot too! Then the wax flowers and the antimacassars! What would a home be without them?" said he, dreamy-eyed and grave. "I think I shall be very bright and cheerful here, my dear Mrs. Trapes."

Mrs. Trapes swallowed audibly, stared at Spike until he writhed, and finally bored her sharp eyes into Mr. Ravenslee again.

"Young man," said she, "what name?"

"I think our friend Spike has informed you that I am sometimes called Geoffrey. Mrs. Trapes, our friend Spike told the truth."

"Young feller," she demanded, "'oo are you and—what?"

"Mrs. Trapes," he sighed, "I am a lonely wight, a wanderer in wild places, a waif, a stray, puffed hither and thither by a fate perverse—"

"Talking o' verses, you ain't a poet, are you?" enquired Mrs. Trapes, "last poet as lodged wi' me useter go to bed in 'is boots reg'lar! Consequently I ain't nowise drawed to poets—"

Mr. Ravenslee laughed and shook his head.

"Have no fear," he answered, "I'm no poet nor ever shall be. I'm quite an ordinary human being, I assure you."

"Young feller—references?"

"Mrs. Trapes, I have none—except my face. But you have very sharp eyes; look at me well. Do I strike you as a rogue or a thief?"

Here Spike, chancing to catch his eye, blushed painfully, while Mr. Ravenslee continued:

"Come, Mrs. Trapes, you have a motherly heart, I know, and I am a very lonely being who needs one like you to—to cook and care for his bodily needs and to look after the good of his solitary soul. Were I to search New York I couldn't find another motherly heart so suited to my crying needs as yours; you won't turn me away, will you?" Saying which, Mr. Ravenslee smiled his slow, sleepy smile and—wonder of wonders—Mrs. Trapes smiled too!

"When d' ye wanter come?"

"Now!"

"Land sakes!" she exclaimed.

"If it won't trouble you too much?" he added.

"There's sheets to be aired—" she began, but checked suddenly to stare at him again. "Look a here, Mr. Geoffrey," she went on, "my terms is two-fifty a week, ten dollars with board, and a week in advance."

"Good!" nodded Mr. Ravenslee, "but since I'm coming in at such short notice, I'll pay three weeks ahead just to—er—bind the bargain. See—that will be thirty dollars, won't it?" And speaking, he drew a handful of crumpled bills from his pocket and proceeded to count out thirty dollars upon the green and yellow tablecloth.

"Sakes alive!" murmured Mrs. Trapes.

"And now," said he, "I'll just step around the corner with Spike to buy—er—a toothbrush."

"Toothbrush!" echoed Mrs. Trapes faintly.

"And a few other things. I shall be in early to supper."

"Would a nice, English mutton chop wiv tomatoes—"

"Excellent; and thank you, Mrs. Trapes, for sheltering a homeless wretch." So saying, her new boarder smiled and nodded and, following Spike out into the hallway, was gone.

But Mrs. Trapes stood awhile to stare after him, lost in speculation.

"A toothbrush!" said she. "My! My!" Then she turned to stare down at the pile of bills. "Now I wonder," said she, right hand caressing left elbow-point, "I jest wonder who he's been a-choking of to get all that money? But I like his eyes! And his smile! And he looks a man—and honest! Well, well!"

HOW SPIKE INITIATED MR. RAVENSLEE INTO THE GENTLE ART OF SHOPPING

"Gee!" exclaimed Spike, as they descended the many stairs, "she sure gave you the frosty-face, Geoff, but it didn't seem to joggle you any!"

"No, it didn't joggle me, Spike, because you see—I like her."

"Like Mrs. Trapes? You 'n' Hermy are about the only ones then; most every one in Mulligan's hates her an' gets scared stiff when she cuts loose! But say, you do keep on rubbing it in, I mean about—about thieving!"

"Probably it's your conscience, Spike."

"You won't ever go telling any one or blowing d' game on me?"

"Spike, when I make a promise I generally keep it."

"Y' see, Geoff, it ain't as though I was a—a real crook."

"You meant to be."

"But I never stole nothin' in my life, Geoff."

"Suppose I hadn't caught you?"

"Oh, well, cheese it, Geoff, cheese it! Let's talk about something else."

"With pleasure. When does your sister return?"

"This evening, I guess. But, Geoff—say now, do I look like a real crook—do I?"

"No, you don't, Spike, that's sure! And yet—only last night—"

"Ah, yes, I know—I know!" groaned the lad, "but I was crazy, I think. It was the whisky, Geoff, an' they doped me too, I guess! I don't remember much after we left till I found myself in your swell joint. God! if I was only sure they doped me."

"Who?"

"Who? Why—gee, you nearly had me talking that time! Nix on the questions, Geoff, I ain't goin' to give 'em away; it ain't playin' square. Only, if two or three guys dopes a guy till a guy's think-box is like a cheese an' his mind as clear as mud, that poor guy ain't to be blamed for it, now, is he?"

"Why, certainly!" nodded Ravenslee.

"How d' ye make that out?"

"For being such a fool of a guy as to let other guys fool him, of course. Sounds a little cryptic, but I guess you understand."

"Oh, I get you!" sighed Spike drearily. "But say, didn't you come out to buy a toothbrush?"

"And other things, yes."

"Well, say, s'pose we quit chewing th' rag an' start in an' get 'em. There's a Sheeny store on Ninth Avenue where you can get dandy shirts for fifty cents a throw."

"Sounds fairly reasonable!" nodded Mr. Ravenslee as they turned up Thirty-ninth Street.

"Then you want a new lid, Geoff!"

Mr. Ravenslee took off the battered hat and looked at it.

"What's the matter with this?" he enquired.

"Nothin', Geoff, only it wants burnin'," sighed Spike. "An' then—them boots—oh, gee!"

"Are they so bad as that?"

"Geoff, they sure are the punkest pavement pounders in little old N' York. Why, a Dago hodcarrier wouldn't be seen dead in 'em; look at th' patches. Gee whizz! Where did His Whiskers dig 'em up from?"

"I fancy they were his own—once," answered Mr. Ravenslee, surveying his bulbous, be-patched footgear a little ruefully.

"Well, I'll gamble a stack of blue chips there ain't such a phoney pair in Manhattan Village."

"They're not exactly things of beauty, I'll admit," sighed Mr. Ravenslee, "but still—"

"They're rotten, Geoff! They're all to the garbage can! They are the cheesiest proposition in sidewalk slappers I ever piped off!"

"Hum! You're inclined to be a trifle discouraging, Spike!"

"Why, ye see, Geoff, I wan'cher t' meet th' push, an' I don't want 'em to think I'm floatin' around with a down-an'-out from Battyville! You must have some real shoes, Geoff."

"Enough—it shall be done!" nodded Mr. Ravenslee.

"Well, tan Oxfords are all to th' grapes just now, Geoff. I don't mean those giddy-lookin' pumps with flossy bows onto 'em, but somethin' sporty, good an' yellow that'll flash an' let folks know you're comin'. And here's Eckstein's!"

With which abrupt remark Spike plunged into a shop, very dark and narrow by reason of a heterogeneous collection of garments, of ribbons and laces, of collars and ties of many shapes and hues, together with a thousand and one other things that displayed themselves from floor to ceiling; amidst which, Mr. Ravenslee observed a stir, a slight confusion, and from a screen of vivid-bosomed shirts a head protruded itself, round as to face and sleek as to hair.

"Greetin's, Ikey!" said Spike, nodding to the head. "How's pork to-day?"

"Aw—vat you vant now, hey?" enquired the head. "Vat's the vord; now—shpit it out!"

"It ain't me, Moses, it's me friend wants a sporty fit-out an' discount for spot cash, see? Show us your half-dollar shirts for a starter—an' sporty ones, mind!"

Immediately out came drawers and down came boxes, and very soon the small counter was littered with piles of raiment variously gaudy which Spike viewed and disparaged with such knowing judgment that the salesman's respect proportionately grew, and Mr. Ravenslee, lounging in the background, was forgotten quite, the while they chaffered after this manner:

Salesman. "Here vos a shirt as can't be beat for der money—neglegee boosom an' turnover cuffs, warranted shrunk, and all for vun dollar."

Spike. "Come off, Aaron, come off! Fifty cents is th' bid!"

Salesman. "Fifty cents? Vy, on Broadvay dey'd sharge you—"

Spike. "Wake up, Ike! This ain't Broadway! And fifty's the limit!"

Salesman. "But shust look at dem pink shtripes—so vide as an inch! Dere's fifty cents' vorth of dye in dem shtripes, an' I'll give it you for seventy-five cents! On Broadvay—"

Spike. "We're gettin' there, Ikey, we're gettin' there; keep on, fifty's the call!"

Salesman. "Fifty cents! Oi! Oi! I vould be ruined! A neglegee boosom and turnover cuffs! Vell, vell—I'll wrap it up, so—an' I make you a present of it for—sixty! An' on Broadvay—"

Spike. "Come on, Geoff, Aaron's talking in his sleep! Come on, we'll go on to Mendelbaum's; see—we want shirts, an' ties, an' socks, an' collars, an'—"

Salesman. "Vait—vait! Mendelbaum's a grafter—vait! I got th' best selection of socks an' ties on Ninth Av'noo, an' here's a neglegee shirt with turnover cuffs—an' only fifty cents. But at Mendelbaum's or on Broadvay—"

In this way Mr. Ravenslee became possessed of sundry shirts whose bosoms blushed in striped and spotted splendour, of vivid-hued ties and of handkerchiefs with flaming borders. From shop to shop Spike led him and, having a free hand, bought right royally, commanding that their purchases be sent around hotfoot to Mulligan's. Thus Spike ordered, and Mr. Ravenslee dutifully paid, marvelling that so much might be bought for so little.

"I guess that's about all the fixings you'll need, Geoff!" said Spike, as they elbowed their way along the busy avenue.

"Well," answered Mr. Ravenslee, as he filled his pipe, "it will certainly take me some time to wear 'em out—especially those shirts!"

"They sure are dandies, Geoff! Yes, those shirts are all to the lollipops, but say, you made a miscue gettin' them black shoes," and here Spike turned to stare down at his companion's newly acquired footwear. "Why not buy the yellow boys I rustled up for you. They sure were some shoes!"

"They were indeed, Spike."

"Gee, but it must feel good t' be able t' buy whatever you want!" sighed Spike dreamily. "Some day I mean to have a wad big enough t' choke a cow—but I wish I had it right now!"

"What would you do with it?"

"Do with it! Well, say, first off I'd—I'd buy Hermy them roses—th' whole lot," and he pointed where, among the pushcarts drawn up against the curb, was one where roses bloomed, filling the air with their sweetness. "An' next she should—"

"Then go and buy 'em, Spike!" and speaking, Mr. Ravenslee thrust a bill into Spike's hand.

"Gee—a twenty-spot! Can I, Geoff?" he cried, his blue eyes shining. "Th' whole lot—on d' level?"

"On the level."

Spike started joyfully away, paused, turned, and came back with head a-droop.

"I guess it can't be done, Geoff," he sighed.

"Why not?"

"Well, y' see, it ain't as it was my own money, really."

"But it is!"

"No, it ain't! I haven't earned it, Geoff, an' I ain't a guy as sponges on his pals, not much I ain't. Take your money, Geoff. When I buy Hermy anything it's goin' to be bought with money as I've earned."

So Mr. Ravenslee thrust the bill back into his pocket and thereafter walked on, frowning and very silent, as one lost in perplexed thought. Wherefore, after more than one furtive glance at him, Spike addressed him with a note of diffidence in his voice.

"You ain't sore with me, are you, Geoff?"

"Sore with you?"

"I mean, because I—I didn't take your money?"

Here Mr. Ravenslee turned to glance down at Spike and clap a hand upon his shoulder.

"No," he answered, "I'm not sore with you. And I think—yes, I think your sister is going to be proud of you one day."

And now it was Spike's turn to grow thoughtful, while his companion, noting the flushed brow and the firm set of the boyish lips, frowned no longer.

"Hello, there's Tony!" exclaimed Spike as they turned into Forty-second Street, "over there—behind the pushcart—th' guy with th' peanuts!" And he pointed where, from amid a throng of vehicles, a gaily painted barrow emerged, a barrow whereon were peanuts unbaked, baked, and baking as the shrill small whistle above its stove proclaimed to all and sundry. It was propelled by a slender, graceful, olive-skinned man, who, beholding Spike, flashed two rows of brilliant teeth and halted his barrow beside the curb.

"How goes it, Tony?" questioned Spike, whereat the young Italian smiled, and thereafter sighed and shook his head.

"Da beezeneez-a ver' good," he sighed, "da peanut-a sell-a all-a da time! But my lil' Pietro he sick, he no da same since his moder die-a, me no da same—have-a none of da luck—noding—nix!"

"Hard cheese, Tony!" quoth Spike. "But say, have you seen th' Spider kickin' around?"

"No, I ain't! But you tell-a da Signorina—"

"Sure I will—"

"My lil' Pietro he love-a da Signorina; me, I love-a her—she so good, so generosa, ah, yes!" And taking off his hat in one hand, Tony kissed the other and waved it gracefully in the air.

"Right-o, Tony!" nodded Spike. "You can let it go at that. An' say—this is me friend Geoff."

Tony gripped Mr. Ravenslee's hand and shook it.

"You one o' da bunch—one o' da boys, hey? Good-a luck." So saying, Tony nodded, flashed his white teeth again, and seizing the handles of his barrow, trundled off his peanut oven, whistling soft and shrill.

"Tony's only a guinney," Spike explained as they walked on again. "But he's white, Geoff—'n' say, he's a holy terror in a mix-up! Totes one o' them stiletto knives. I've seen him stab down into a glass full of water an' never spill a drop, which sure wants some doing."

Evening was falling, and dismal Tenth Avenue was wrapping itself in shadow, a shadow made more manifest by small lights that burned dismally in small and dingy shops, a shadow, this, wherein moving shadows jostled with lounging shoulder or elbow. As they passed a certain dark entry where divers of these vague shadows lounged, a long arm was stretched thence, and a large hand gripped Spike's shoulder.

"Why—hello, Spider," said he, halting. "What's doin'?"

"Nawthin' much, Kid—only little M—'say, who's wid you?"

"Oh, this is a friend o' mine—Geoff, dis is d' Spider!" explained Spike.

Visualised in "the Spider" Ravenslee saw a tall, slender youth, very wide in the shoulder and prodigiously long of arm and leg, and who looked at him keen-eyed from beneath a wide cap brim, while his square jaws worked with untiring industry upon a wad of chewing gum.

"Good evening!" said Ravenslee and held out his hand. The Spider ceased chewing for a moment, nodded, and turning to Spike, chewed fiercer than ever.

"Where youse goin', Kid?" he enquired, masticating the while.

"What was you goin' to tell me, Spider?" demanded Spike, a note of sudden anxiety in his voice.

"Nawthin', Kid."

"Aw—come off, Spider! What was it?"

The Spider glanced up at the gloomy sky, glanced down at the dingy pavement, and finally beckoned Spike aside with a quick back-jerk of the head, and, stooping close, whispered something in his ear—something that caused the boy to start away with clenched hands and face of horror, something that seemed to trouble him beyond speech, for he stood a moment dumb and staring, then found utterance in a sudden, hoarse cry:

"No—no! It ain't true—oh, my God!"

And with the cry, Spike turned sharp about and, springing to a run, vanished into the shadows.

"What's the matter?" demanded Ravenslee, turning on the Spider.

"Matter?" repeated that youth, staring at him under his cap brim again; "well, say—I guess you'd better ask d' Kid."

"Where's he gone?"

"How do I know?"

"It isn't—his sister, is it?"

"Miss Hermione? Well, I guess not!" So saying, the Spider, chewing ferociously, turned and vanished down the dark entry with divers other shadows.

For a moment Mr. Ravenslee stood where he was, staring uncertainly after him; presently however he went on toward Mulligan's, though very slowly, and with black brows creased in frowning perplexity.

CONCERNING ANKLES, STAIRS, AND NEIGHBOURLINESS

It was in no very pleasant humour that Geoffrey Ravenslee began to climb the many stairs (that much-trodden highway) that led up to his new abode; he climbed them slowly, frowning in a dark perplexity, and wholly unconscious of the folk that jostled him or paused to stare after him as he went.

But presently, and all at once, he became aware of one who climbed half a flight above him, and, glancing up, he saw a foot in a somewhat worn shoe, a shapely foot nevertheless, joined to a slender ankle which peeped and vanished alternately beneath a neat, well-brushed skirt that swayed to the vigorous action of the shapely limbs it covered. He was yet observing the soft, rounded curves of this most feminine back when he became aware of two facts: one, that she bore a heavy suit case in her neatly gloved hand; two, that the tress of hair peeping rebellious beneath the neat hat brim was of a wondrous yellow gold. Instantly he hastened his steps, and reaching out his hand almost instinctively, sought to relieve her of her burden.

"Allow me!" said he.

She stopped, and turning on the stair above, looked down on him with a pair of wondering blue eyes; her cheeks glowed, and she was panting a little. For a long moment they fronted each other thus silently upon that grimy, narrow stair, she above with gracious head stooped, her dark eyes questioning and wistful. And looking up into the flushed loveliness of her face, those eyes deep and soft beneath their long, black lashes, the tender droop of those vivid lips, beholding all this, he knew her to be a thousand times more beautiful than any photograph could possibly portray, wherefore he bared his head, and striving to speak, could find no words to utter. For a moment longer she hesitated while her clear eyes searched his face, then the red lips curved in a little wistful smile.

"Thank you!" she said, and, yielding him her burden, led the way up-stairs. "I'm afraid it's rather heavy," she said over her shoulder after they had climbed another flight.

"It's quite too heavy for you!" he answered.

"Oh, but I've carried it often before now."

"Then you shouldn't!"

"But I have to!"

"No," said Ravenslee, shaking his head, "you should let your brother bring it up for you."

"My brother!" she exclaimed, pausing to look her amazement. And again as she stood thus poised above him, he took joy to note the warmth of her rich colouring, the soft, round column of her white throat, the gracious breadth of hip and shoulder.

"You know I have a brother?"

"Oh, yes, Spike—er—that is, Arthur and I are quite—er—ancient cronies—pals, you know—friends, I mean—" Mr. Ravenslee was actually stammering.

"Oh, really?" she said softly; but all at once, becoming aware of the fixity of his regard, the colour deepened in her cheek, the long lashes drooped and, turning away, she went on up the stair.

"It's a long way up yet! Hadn't you better let me take it?"

"Not for worlds!" he answered.

"Isn't it getting heavier?" she enquired, as they climbed the next flight.

"Decidedly heavier!"

"Then please," said she, slackening her pace, "please let me take it!"

"On the contrary," he answered, his gaze on her slender foot and ankle, "I should like to carry it for you all my—er—ah, that is—I mean—"

Mr. Ravenslee was stammering again.

"Yes?"

He was aware that the shapely foot had faltered in its going.

"As often as I may, Miss Hermione."

Hereupon the shapely foot halted altogether, and once again she turned to look at him in wide-eyed surprise.

"You know my name?"

"I learned it from Arthur, and—I shall never forget it!"

"Why not?"

"Well, because it is rather uncommon and—very beautiful!"

"Oh!" said Hermione, and went on up the stair again, yet not before he had seen the flush was back in her cheek.

"Are you getting tired yet?" she enquired, without looking round.

"Not appreciably," he answered, "but if you think I need a rest—"

"No, no!" she laughed, "we should never get off these frightful stairs!"

"Even that might have its compensations!" he murmured.

"And we've been much longer than if you'd let me carry it up myself."

"But then we've no cause for panting haste, have we?" he suggested.

"And we have four more flights to climb."

"So few!" he sighed.

"You see, I live at the very tip-top."

"Good!" said he.

At this she glanced down at him over the sweep of her shoulder.

"Why 'good'?" she demanded.

"Because I also live at the tip-top."

"Do you—oh!"

"With the excellent Mrs. Trapes."

"But I thought she had lost her lodger?"

"She had the—er—extreme good fortune to find a new one to-day."

"Meaning you?"

"Meaning me."

By this time they had reached the topmost landing, where Mr. Ravenslee set down the suit case almost reluctantly.

"Thank you!" said Hermione, looking at him with her frank gaze.

"Heaven send I may earn your thanks again—and very soon," he answered, lifting the battered hat.

"You didn't tell me your name!" said she, fumbling in a well-worn little hand bag for her latchkey.

"I am called Geoffrey."

Hermione opened the door and, taking up the suit case, held out her hand.

"Good-by, Mr. Geoffrey!"

"For the present!" said he, and though his tone was light there was a very real humility in his attitude as he stood bareheaded before her. "For the present!" he repeated.

"Well—we are very near neighbours," said she, dark lashes a-droop.

"And neighbourliness is next to godliness—isn't it?"

"Is it?"

"Well, I think so, anyway? So, Miss Hermione—not 'good-by.'"

She glanced swiftly up at him, flushed, and turning about, was gone. But even so, before her door closed quite, she spoke soft-voiced: "Good—evening, Mr. Geoffrey!"

Thereafter, for a space, Mr. Ravenslee stood precisely where he was, staring hard at the battered hat; yet it is not to be supposed that the sight of this could possibly have brought the smile to his lips, and into his eyes a look that surely none had ever seen there before—such a preposterously shabby, disreputable old hat! Of course not!

OF CANDIES AND CONFIDENCES

"Oh!" said Mrs. Trapes, "so you've come? Good land, Mr. Geoffrey, there's parcels an' packages been a-coming for you constant ever since you went out! Whatever have you been a-buying of?" And opening the door of his small bedroom, she indicated divers packages with a saucepan lid she happened to be holding.

"Well," said her lodger, seating himself upon the bed, "if I remember rightly, there are shirts, and socks, and pajamas, and a few other oddments of the sort. And here, when I can get it out of my pocket, is a box of candies. I don't know if you are fond of such things, but most of the sex feminine are, I believe. Pray take them as a mark of my—er—humble respect!"

"Candy!" exclaimed Mrs. Trapes, turning the gaily bedecked box over and over, and glaring at it fierce-eyed. "Fer me?"

"If you will deign acceptance."

"Candy!" she repeated, elbows a-twitch. "Fer me? Land sakes, Mr. Geoffrey, I—I—" Here, very abruptly, she turned about and vanished into the kitchen.

Mr. Ravenslee, lounging upon his white bed, was taking languid stock of his purchases when Mrs. Trapes suddenly reappeared, clutching a toasting fork.

"Mr. Geoffrey," she said, glaring still, "them candies must ha' cost you a sight o' money?"

"True, certain monies were expended, Mrs. Trapes."

"They must ha' cost you well nigh a dollar-fifty, I reckon?"

"They did!" nodded Mr. Ravenslee, smiling.

"My land!" exclaimed Mrs. Trapes, and vanished again.

Mr. Ravenslee was sighing over a hideously striped shirt when Mrs. Trapes was back again, flourishing a very large tablespoon.

"Mr. Geoffrey," said she, "it's nigh forty years since any one bought me a box o' chocolates! An' now they look so cute all done up in them gold an' silver wrappings as I don't wanter eat 'em—seems a sin, it do. But—Mr. Geoffrey I—I'd like to—thank ye—" and lo, she was gone again!

Mr. Ravenslee had just pitched the striped shirt out of the window when behold, Mrs. Trapes was back yet once more, this time grasping a much battered but more bepolished dish cover.

"Mr. Geoffrey," said she, "I ain't good at thankin' folks, no, I ain't much on gratitood—never having had much to gratify over—but them candies is goin' to be consoomed slow an' reverent and in a proper sperrit o' gratitood. And now if you're ready to eat your supper, your supper's a-waitin' to be ate!"

So saying, she led the way into the parlour, where upon a snowy cloth, in a dish tastefully garnished with fried tomatoes, the English mutton chop reposed, making the very most of itself; the which Mr. Ravenslee forthwith proceeded to attack with surprising appetite and gusto.

"Is it tender?" enquired Mrs. Trapes anxiously. "Heaven pity that butcher if it ain't! Is it tasty, kind of?"

"It's delicious," nodded her lodger. "Really, Hell's Kitchen seems to suit me; I eat and sleep like a new man!"

"So you ain't lived here long, Mr. Geoffrey?" queried Mrs. Trapes, eagle-eyed.

"Not long enough to—er—sigh for pastures new. Don't go, Mrs. Trapes, I love to hear folks talk; sit down and tell me tales of dead kings and—er—I mean, converse of our neighbours, will you?"

"I will so, an' thank ye kindly, Mr. Geoffrey, if you don't mind me sucking a occasional candy?"

"Pray do, Mrs. Trapes," he said heartily; whereupon, having fetched her chocolates, Mrs. Trapes ensconced herself in the easy chair and opening the box, viewed its contents with glistening eyes.

"You're an Englishman, ain't you?" she enquired after a while, munching luxuriously.

"No, but my mother was born in England."

"You don't say!" exclaimed Mrs. Trapes. "So was I—born in the Old Kent Road, Mr. Geoffrey. I came over to N' York thirty long years ago as cook general to Hermy Chesterton's ma. When she went and married again, I left her an' got married myself to Trapes—a foreman, Mr. Geoffrey, with a noble 'eart as 'ad wooed me long!" Here Mrs. Trapes opened the candy box again and, after long and careful deliberation, selected a chocolate with gentle, toil-worn fingers, and putting it in her mouth, sighed her approbation. "They sure are good!" she murmured. "But talkin' o' Hermy Chesterton's ma," she went on after a blissful interval, "I been wondering where you came to meet that b'y Arthur?"

"Ah, Mrs. Trapes," sighed Ravenslee, leaning back in his chair and shaking a rueful head, "you touch on gloomy matters. As the story books say, 'thereby hangs a tale'—the dismal tale of a miserable wretch whose appetite was bad, whose sleep was worse, and whose temper was worst of all—oh, a very wretched wretch indeed!"

"My land!" exclaimed Mrs. Trapes, stopping abruptly in the act of masticating a large chocolate walnut, "so bad as that, Mr. Geoffrey?"

"Worse!" he nodded gloomily. "It is indeed a gloomy tale, a tale dark and dismal that I love not the telling of, for, Mrs. Trapes, that more than hopeless wretch stands, or rather sits, before you!"

"Save us!" ejaculated Mrs. Trapes, "meanin' yourself?"

"My unworthy self!"

"Lord!" she whispered, "what you been a-doin' of?"

"Wasting a promising life, Mrs. Trapes!"

"You mean," she questioned in a harsh whisper, "you mean as you've—killed some one—accidental?"

"Oh, no, the life was mine own, Mrs. Trapes."

"Land sakes, Mr. Geoffrey, you give me quite a turn! Y' see, sometimes folks gets theirselves killed around here—an' it's always accidental—sure!" and Mrs. Trapes nodded meaningly and went on chewing. "But say," she demanded, suddenly sharp of eye, "where does Arthur come in?"

"Arthur comes in right here, Mrs. Trapes! In fact, Arthur broke into my—er—life just when things were at their darkest generally. Arthur found me very depressed and gloomy. Arthur taught me that life might yet have its uses. Arthur lifted me out of the Slough of Despond. Arthur brought me—to you! And behold! life is good and perchance shall be even better if—ah yes, if! So you see, my dear Mrs. Trapes, Arthur has done much for me, consequently I have much to thank Arthur for. Indeed, I look upon Arthur—"

"Shucks!" exclaimed Mrs. Trapes, "that'll be about enough about Arthur—Arthur, indeed! You oughter know his sister!" Now at this her lodger started and glanced at her so suddenly, and with eyes so unexpectedly keen that once again she suspended mastication.

"Now, in the name of all that's wonderful, Mrs. Trapes, why mention her?"

"Why, because she's worth knowin'! Because she's the best, the bravest, the sweetest thing that ever went in petticoats. She's beautiful inside and out—mind, I've nursed her in these arms years ago an' I know she's—oh, well, you ought to meet Hermy!"

"Mrs. Trapes, I have!"

"Eh? You have? My lan'!" Mrs. Trapes bolted a caramel in her astonishment and thereafter stared at Ravenslee with watering eyes. "An' you to set there an' never tell me!" quoth she, "an' Hermy never told me—well, well! When did ye meet her? Whereabouts? How?"

"About half an hour ago! Coming up the stairs! I carried her grip!"

"Well!" exclaimed Mrs. Trapes, staring, "well, well!" and she continued to munch candy and to stare and say "well!" at intervals until arrested by a new thought. "That b'y!" she exclaimed. "Was Arthur with her?"

"No," answered Ravenslee, wrinkling his brows, "I lost him on my way home."

Mrs. Trapes sighed and shook her head.

"The sun sure rises and sets for her in that b'y—an' him only her stepbrother at that!"

"Her stepbrother?"

"Yes!" nodded Mrs. Trapes emphatically. "Hermy's ma were a lady, same as Hermy is; so were her pa, I mean a gentleman, of course. But Hermy's father died, an' then her ma, poor soul, goes an' marries a good-lookin' loafer way beneath her, a man as weren't fit to black her shoes, let alone take 'em off! And Arthur's his father's child. Oh, a good enough b'y as b'ys go, but wild, now and then, and rough, like his dad."

"I see!" nodded her hearer, thoughtfully.

"Now me, though married ten long year, never 'ad no children, so ever since Hermy's mother died, I've tried to watch over her and help her as much as I could. She's had a mighty hard struggle, one thing and another, Mr. Geoffrey, an' now I've known her an' loved her so long it kind o' seems as if she belonged to me—almost!"

"She looks very good and—brave!" said Mr. Ravenslee.

"Good!" cried Mrs. Trapes, and snorted. "I tell you she's jest a angel o' light, Mr. Geoffrey. If you'd seen her, like I have, goin' from one poor little sick child to another, kissing their little hot faces, tellin' 'em stories, payin' for doctor's stuff out of her bit o' savings, mendin' their clo'es—an' prayin' over 'em when they died—why—I guess you'd think she was a angel too! One sure thing," said Mrs. Trapes rising, "there ain't a breathin' man in all this whole round earth as is fit to go down on 'is knees an' kiss 'er little foot—not a one! No, sir!"

"No, I don't think there is!" said Mr. Ravenslee slowly.

"As for that Bud M'Ginnis," cried Mrs. Trapes, seizing on the coffee-pot much as if it had been that gentleman's throat, "I'd—I'd like to—bat him one as would quiet him for keeps—I would so!" and she jerked the coffee-pot fiercely, much to the detriment of her snowy tablecloth. "There! now see what I done, but I do get all worked up over that loafer!"

"Pray why?"

"Why?" snorted Mrs. Trapes indignantly. "Hasn't he made eyes at her ever since they was kids together? Hasn't he worried and worried at her, an' because she won't look at him if she can help it, don't he try to get back at her through that b'y—"

"How does he?"

"How? By puttin' him up to fightin' an' all sorts o' devilment, by teachin' him to be tough, by gettin' him drunk—"

"Oh, does he?"

"Why, bless ye, Bud M'Ginnis can do anything with him!"

"How so?"

"Because Arthur jest worships M'Ginnis for his strength and toughness!"

"I see!"

"Yes, Arthur thinks there's nobody in the world could lick Bud M'Ginnis."

"Hum! May I smoke, Mrs. Trapes?"

"Sure ye may!" she nodded, and began to collect the supper things. "I tell you what," she exclaimed suddenly, flourishing the fork she had just taken up, "if somebody would only come along an' thrash M'Ginnis, thrash him good, it would be a sight better for every one around here—it would so! M'Ginnis is always makin' trouble for some one or other, an' there ain't a man big enough or got heart enough to stand up to him—not even Spider Connolly. Wish I was a man, that's all—just for an hour! Ah!" Here Mrs. Trapes snorted fiercer than usual, and the jut of her elbows was deadly.

"And he gets Arthur drunk, does he!" said Ravenslee, puffing dreamily at his pipe.

"Yes!" sighed Mrs. Trapes as she loaded a tray with the supper things. "Hermy's seen him drunk twice, to my knowing, an' I thought it would break her 'eart, poor dear! Y' see, Mr. Geoffrey, his father died o' the drink, an' she's frightened for fear Arthur should go the same road. Oh, Hermy's life ain't all ice-cream sodas an' lollipops, not much it ain't, poor, brave, beautiful thing!"

Saying which, Mrs. Trapes, sighing again, took up her tray; Mr. Ravenslee, having opened the door for her, closed it again, lighted his pipe, and sinking into the easy-chair, fell into frowning thought.

The windows were open, and from the crowded court below rose the shrill babel of many children's voices, elfin shrieks and cries accompanied by the jingle of a barrel-organ, very wiry and very much out of tune; but Ravenslee, deep-plunged in thought, heard nought of it nor heeded the fact that the pipe, tight-clenched between his strong, white teeth, was out. For Geoffrey Ravenslee had set himself a problem.

The barrel-organ ceased its jangle, the children's voices were gradually hushed, as, one by one, they were called in by hoarse-voiced mothers and led away to bed; and the gloomy court grew ever gloomier as evening deepened into night. But still Mr. Ravenslee lounged in the easy-chair, so motionless that he might have been asleep except for the grim set of his jaw and the bright, wide-open eyes of him.

At last, and suddenly, he sat erect, for he had heard a voice whose soft murmur he recognised even through the closed door.

"I don't know, Hermy dear," came in Mrs. Trapes' harsh tones, "I'm afraid he's gone to bed—anyway, I'll see!" Ensued a knocking of bony knuckles and, opening the door, Ravenslee beheld Mrs. Trapes. Behind her stood Hermione, and in her eyes he saw again that look of wistful, anxious fear he had wondered over at the first.

"Oh, Mr. Geoffrey," said Mrs. Trapes, "it's eleven o'clock, an' that b'y ain't in yet. Here's Hermy been out hunting the streets for him and ain't found him. Consequently she's worriting herself sick over him—drat 'im!"

"Out on the streets!" repeated Ravenslee. "Alone?"

"Yes," answered Hermione, "I had to—try and find him."

"But alone! And at this hour! Miss Hermione, that was surely very—er—unwise of you."

"Yes, you see I didn't know where to look," she sighed. "I've been to the saloon but he wasn't there—"

"The saloon? Good Lord!" exclaimed Ravenslee, his placidity quite forgotten, his face set and stern. "That is no place for you—or any girl—"

"I must go to find Arthur," she said softly.

"No, not there—even for that."

"Why not?"

"Think of the—the risks you run! No girl should take such chances."

"Oh, you mean—that!" said Hermione, meeting his eyes with her frank glance. "But no one would try to insult me hereabouts; this isn't Broadway or Fifth Avenue, Mr. Geoffrey!" and she smiled a very sad, weary little smile. "But I came to ask if you happened to know where Arthur is or—whom he was with?"

"Wasn't wid that Bud M'Ginnis, was he?" questioned Mrs. Trapes sharply.

"No, he wasn't with M'Ginnis," answered Mr. Ravenslee, in frowning perplexity, "but that's about all I can tell you."

"Thank you," sighed the girl, "I must go and try again. I know I shall find him—soon." But, though she tried to speak in a tone of cheerful confidence, her shapely head drooped rather hopelessly.

"You mean you are going out on to the—to look for him again?"

"Why, of course," she answered, "I must find Arthur!"

"Don't, Hermy, don't—so pale an' tired as you are, don't go again!" pleaded Mrs. Trapes, her usual sharpness transfigured into a deep and yearning tenderness; even her voice seemed to lose something of its harshness. "Don't worry, my sweet, the b'y'll find his way home right enough, like he did last time."

"Like—last time!" cried Hermione, and shivering, she leaned against the wall as if she were faint. "Ah, no, no!" she whispered, "not—like last time!" and bowing her head she hid her face in her hands.

Close, close about that quivering form came two motherly arms, and Mrs. Trapes fell to passionate invective and tender soothing, thus:

"There, there, my love—my pretty, don't remember that last time! Oh, drat my fool's tongue for remindin' you, drat it, my dear, my honey! Ah, don't go breakin' your angel's 'eart along of Arthur, my precious—and drat him too! That b'y'll come back all right, he will—he will, I know he will. Oh, if I was only behind 'im with a toasting fork! There, there, Hermy dear, don't fret, Arthur'll come home all right. My honey, you're all tuckered out, an' here it's gettin' on to midnight, an' you to go to Englewood by the early car! Go to bed, dear, an' I'll sit up for Arthur. Only don't cry, Hermy—"

"Oh, I'm not crying, dear," said Hermione, lifting her head. "See, I haven't shed a tear! But I must find Arthur. I couldn't rest or sleep; I should lie listening for his step. So you see, dear, I must go out and find him!"

Hereupon, with swift, dexterous fingers, Hermione straightened the very neat hat which the embrace of Mrs. Trapes had rendered somewhat askew, and, turning to the door, came face to face with Mr. Ravenslee, and in his hand she beheld his battered hat, but she did not notice how fiercely his powerful fingers gripped it.

"Miss Hermione," said he, in his soft, indolent voice, and regarding her beneath languidly drooping lids, "pray accept the hospitality of my—er—apartment. You will find the easy-chair is very easy, and while you sit here with Mrs. Trapes, I'll find your brother and bring him here to you."

"Thank you," she answered a little shortly because of his lazy tone or his sleepy eyes, or his general languid air, or all of them together. "Thank you, but I'm going myself; I must go, I—I couldn't wait—"

"Oh, but really you must, you know!"

"Must?" she repeated, looking her surprise.

"Ab-solutely must!" he answered softly, nodding so sleepily that she almost expected him to yawn. "You really can't go out again to-night, you know," he added. Hermione's blue eyes flashed, her delicate brows knit themselves, and Mr. Ravenslee saw that she was taller than he had thought.

"You mean you will—try to stop me?" she demanded.

"No, I mean that I—will stop you!"

"But you'd never dare—"

"I would dare even your anger in so good a cause. Ah, please don't be angry with me, Miss Hermione, because—" and here his sleepy voice grew positively slumberous, "you shall not go out into the streets again to-night!"

"Ah, an' that's right too, Mr. Geoffrey!" cried Mrs. Trapes. "Hermy needs some one strong enough to master her now an' then, she is that wilful, she is so!"

But now all at once, as he watched, Hermione's eyes filled with great, slow-gathering tears, her firm-set lips grew soft and quivered pitifully, and she sank down in the easy-chair, her golden head bowed upon the green and yellow tablecloth. The battered hat tumbled to the floor, and striding forward, he had bent and caught one of her listless hands all in a moment, and thereafter, though it struggled feebly once, he held it closely prisoned in his own.

"Oh, don't!" he pleaded, his words coming quick and eager, "don't do that! Do you think I can't see that you're all overwrought? How can I let you go tramping out there in the streets again? You couldn't go—you mustn't go! Stay here with good Mrs. Trapes, I beg of you, and I swear I'll bring Arthur to you! Only you must promise me to wait here and be patient, however long I am—you must promise, Hermione!"

She lifted her heavy head and looked at him through her tears. And surely, surely in the face that bent above her was none of indolence or languor. These lips were firm now and close-set, these lazy eyes were wide and bright, and in them that which brought the warm colour to her cheeks; but reverence was there also, wherefore she met his look, and her fingers were not withdrawn from his until she had answered: "I promise!"

"That's my wise dearie!" nodded Mrs. Trapes. "And good luck to ye, Mr. Geoffrey, an' when you find that b'y, say as I wish—ah, how I wish I was back of him with a toasting fork, that's all!"

Mr. Ravenslee caught up the shabby hat, opened the door, and going out, closed it softly behind him.

"Hermy," said Mrs. Trapes, clasping the girl's slender waist in her long arm and leading her into the brightest of bright little kitchens, "I like that young feller—who he is I don't know, what he does I don't know, but what he is I do know, an' that's—a man, my dear! An' he called you—Hermione! Sounds kind o' pretty the way he says it, don't you think?" But Hermione didn't answer.

Meanwhile Mr. Ravenslee, descending the monotonous stairs, paused suddenly to smile and to clap hand to thigh.

"A toasting fork!" said he, "a toasting fork is an instrument possessing three or more sharp points! Ha! Mrs. Trapes is a woman of singularly apposite ideas." And he smiled a little grimly as he went on down the stairs.