The Definite Object: A Romance of New York

WHICH RECOUNTS THE END OF AN EPISODE

Midway down he beheld two burly policemen who mounted, one behind the other, their grey helmets, blue coats, and silver buttons seeming to fill the narrow stairway.

"Anything wrong?" he enquired, as they drew level.

"Not wid you dis time, bo!" answered one, blandly contemptuous, and strode on up the stair, twirling his club in practised hand, his fellow officer at his heels.

Thus rebuked, Mr. Ravenslee looked after them with quick-drawn brows until, remembering his broken hat brim and shabby clothes, he smiled and went upon his way. Reaching the dingy lower hall he beheld the solitary gas-jet flare whose feeble light showed five lounging forms, rough fellows who talked together in hoarse murmurs and with heads close together.

He was passing by, when, in one of these deep-throated talkers, he recognised the long limbs and wide, sloping shoulders of the Spider. Mr. Ravenslee paused and nodded.

"Good evening!" said he, but this time kept his hands in his pockets. The Spider eyed him somewhat askance, shifted his wad of chewing gum from one cheek to the other, and spoke.

"'Lo!" said he.

"Do you know where Spike is?"

"S'pose I do—then what?" demanded the Spider with a truculent lurch of his wide shoulders.

"Then I shall ask you to tell me where I can find him—or better still, you might show me."

"Oh, might I?"

"You might!"

The feelings of the Spider waxing beyond mere words, he looked at the speaker, viewed him up and down with a glance of contemptuous hostility, whereat Ravenslee's whole expression melted into one of lamblike meekness.

"Say," quoth the Spider at last, "there's only one thing as I can't stand about you, an' that's—everything!"

"Sorry for that," murmured Ravenslee, "because I rather like you, Spider. I think you could be quite a decent fellow if you tried very hard! Come, shake your grouch and let's be friends."

"Say," growled the Spider, "what you're sufferin' from's a hard neck! You ain't no friend o' mine—not much you ain't, savvy? So crank up an' get on yer way like a good little feller!"

"But you see I'm anxious to find Spike because—"

"Well, say, you keep on bein' anxious, only do it somewheres else. I don't want youse around where I am, see? So beat it while d' goin's good!"

"Why—er—no," said Ravenslee in his laziest tones, "no, I don't think I'll beat it. I guess I'll stay right here and wait until you are so kind, so—er—very kind and obliging as to show me where I can find Spike." And he sighed plaintively as he lounged against the wall behind, but his eyes were surprisingly bright and quick beneath the shadow of the battered hat.

"Hully Chee!" exclaimed the Spider, expectorating contemptuously, "hark to the flossy-boy, fellers! Aw, run away, now!" said he, scowling suddenly, "run away before ye get slapped on th' wrist!" and, while divers of his companions laughed hoarsely, he turned a contemptuous back on Mr. Ravenslee. But even then he was seized in iron fingers that clutched his shoulder and, in that painful grip, was jerked suddenly around again to behold a face vicious-eyed, thin-lipped, square-jawed, fiercely outthrust. Recognising the "fighting-face", the Spider, being a fighter of a large and varied experience, immediately "covered up", and fell into that famous crouch of his that had proved the undoing of so many doughty fighters ere now. Then, like a flash, his long arm shot out, but in that same instant, Ravenslee, timing the blow to a fraction, moved slightly, and the Spider's knuckles bruised themselves against the wall at the precise moment that Ravenslee's open hand flipped lightly on the side of the Spider's square, lean jaw.

The Spider drew back, staring from Ravenslee's tall, alert figure to his bruised knuckles and back again, while his companions stood by in mute and wide-eyed wonder.

"Spider," said Ravenslee, shaking his head in grave reproof, "you were rather slow that time—very foolish to leave your point uncovered and offer me your jaw like that, you know!"

Five pairs of eyes stared at the speaker with a new and suddenly awakened interest, and beholding in him that lithe assurance of poise, that indefinable air that bespeaks the trained pugilist and which cannot be mistaken, elbows were nudged, and heads wagged knowingly.

Ravenslee's grey eyes were shining, and his pale cheeks tinged with colour.

"Ah, Spider," said he, "life is rather worth while after all, isn't it? Spider, I like you better and better; come, don't be a surly Spider, shake hands!"

"T' hell wid youse!" growled the Spider, covering up again, and, though his face was sulky yet was no trace of contempt there now.

"I suppose," mused Ravenslee, looking him over with knowledgeful eye, "yes, I judge, as you are now, you would fight about seven or eight pounds over your ringside weight. You'd have to give me eighteen pounds! Spider—I could eat you! Come, shake hands and let's go and fetch Spike."

Now, speaking, Ravenslee smiled, with eyes as well as lips; beholding which, the Spider grew slowly upright, his knotted fists unclenched, and, staring Ravenslee in the eyes, he reached out slowly and by degrees and grasped the proffered hand.

"Say," said he, falling to violent mastication of his eternal chewing gum, "who'd you have d'mitts on with last—an' when?"

"Oh, it seems ages ago!" sighed Ravenslee. "But where's Spike?"

"Say, bo, who wants him, an' whaffor? Spike's me pal, see, so I jest shore wants ter savvy who wants him an' why?"

"His sister—"

"Hully Chee! Why didn't youse say so at first? When Miss Hermione wants anything she's gotta have it, I guess! Ain't that right, fellers?"

"You bet," chimed the four.

"So if she wants d' Kid, I guess I'll jest have to fetch him for her. Come on, bo! S'long, fellers!"

Hereupon, having acknowledged the friendly salutes of the four, Ravenslee followed the Spider out into the court, empty now and silent.

"Say, bo, where'd you meet up wid Spike, anyway?" enquired the Spider, as they strode along Tenth Avenue. "You don't belong around here, do ye?"

"No. Do you know where he was last night?"

"You can search me, bo. All I savvy is he was off on some frame-up or other."

"Who with?"

"Well—not wid me."

"Did you see any one with him besides M'Ginnis at O'Rourke's?"

"No, there was only them two."

"Ah, I guessed as much," said Ravenslee, nodding; "he went away with M'Ginnis—good!"

"Say, bo," questioned the Spider when they had gone some way in silence, "I ain't seen you fight anywheres, have I?"

"No, but I've seen you, Spider, I saw you beat Larry McKinnon at 'Frisco."

"Which sure was some fight!" nodded the Spider. "Them half-arm jolts of his sure shook me some; he'd have got me in th' third if I hadn't clinched."

"He was a terror at in-fighting."

"He sure was, bo!"

"It was your jabbing and footwork won you the fight, Spider, one of the best I've ever seen—very little clinching and clean breakaways."

"Larry sure was game all through, yes—right up to the knock-out. A good, clean fighter. 'N' say, bo, I was real sorry to see him counted out."

"It meant a big purse for you, I remember."

"Oh, sure, I had money to burn. I ain't got much left now, though," said the Spider ruefully.

"You came pretty near being a world's champion, Spider."

"Aw—jest near enough t' miss it, I guess. Talkin' o' champeens, the greatest of 'em, th' best fightin' man as ever swung a mitt, I reckon was Joe Madden, as retired years ago. Nobody could ever lick Joe Madden."

"Did you know him?"

"Not me, bo, I wasn't in his class. But I seen him fight years ago."

"Do you think Spike will ever make a champion?" enquired Ravenslee suddenly. "I mean if he were given every chance?"

"Well," answered the Spider slowly, "he sure has the grit; ther ain't nothin' on two legs he's afraid of except—himself, bo. He's too high-strung. Nerves is his trouble, I reckon. Why, Chee! When he's in d' ring he can't be still a minute, can't let himself rest between rounds, see? He kinder beats himself, I guess."

"I know what you mean," nodded Ravenslee, "and I'm sure you're right. By the way, have you ever seen M'Ginnis fight?"

"I seen him scrap once or twice—he's sure ugly in a rough-house, but in th' ring—well, I dunno!"

"Has he a punch?"

"Bo, he's got a sleep-pill in each mitt if—if he can land his wallop right! Yes, siree, if Bud can hit a guy where it'll do most good, that guy's sure goin' to forget his cares an' troubles for a bit. But he's slow an' heavy, Bud is, though I ain't never seen him mix it in th' ring, mind."

"H'm," said Ravenslee thoughtfully, "M'Ginnis seems to have it all his own way around here—why?"

"Well, because Bud's Bud, an' because Bud's old man is a Tammany boss—which gives Bud a big pull wid d' police. 'Nuff said, I guess."

"Quite!" nodded Ravenslee, and walked thereafter deeper in thought than ever. "Where are you taking me?" he enquired, as they turned a sudden corner.

"To d' river!"

"This is Eleventh Avenue, then?"

"Yep! Watch out you don't trip on d' railroad tracks." And now the Spider seemed to have become thoughtful also, and somewhat gloomy, judging by his face as seen by an occasional feeble light as they traversed the unlovely thoroughfare.

"Bo," said he suddenly, "I'm thinkin' there's some guys in this world as would be better out of it. I'm thinkin' of some guy as got a little girl into trouble—an' left her to it. Her kid died, an' her folks turned her out, an' she'd have died too, I guess, if it hadn't been for Miss Hermione an' old Mother Trapes—ye see, she was all alone, poor little kid! Now a man as would treat a girl that ways ain't got no right t' live, I reckon. I should like t' know who that guy was! I should like t' meet that guy—once!"

After this the Spider became more gloomy than ever and spoke only in surly monosyllables. Suddenly he turned off along a narrow, ill-lighted alleyway that led them between divers small mean houses and tall, dark warehouses and brought them suddenly out upon the misty foreshore beyond which the dim and mighty river flowed. On they went, the Spider's depression growing perceptibly, until at last their feet trod the rough planking of a narrow causeway which ended in a dark, raft-like structure moored out in the river. Here was a small and dismal shack from whose solitary window a feeble ray of light beamed.

Ravenslee shivered suddenly and stopped to stare about him while his listless hands changed to tight-clenched fists.

What was it?

What was there about this dismal, silent place that seemed to leap at him all at once from the dimness, he knew not whence? Was it the shack with its solitary light, or the broad river lapping with soft sighings and low weeping sounds among the piles below, or was it something in the altered aspect of the guiding figure that led him forward, slow and ever slower, as if with dragging feet, and yet with feet that trod so softly?

"Spider," said he at last, speaking in hushed and breathless manner, "Spider—where are we?" and speaking he shivered again, even while his clenched hand wiped the sweat from his brow. The Spider made no answer, for the feeble light was blotted out by a very solid something which, approaching softly, resolved itself into a burly, blue-clad form whose silver buttons and shield showed conspicuous.

"What's doin'!" demanded a voice. "Who is it?" The voice was hoarse and authoritative, but the gruff tones were schooled, it seemed, to an almost unnatural softness.

"'S all right, Micky," answered the Spider in the same subdued tone, "it's only me come for d' Kid."

"Who you got wid you there, Spider?"

"A pal o' mine an' d' Kid's—he's all right, Mick!" Then to Ravenslee: "Come on, bo!" Slowly they approached the shack, but, reaching the door, the Spider hesitated a long moment ere, lifting the latch, he led the way in.

A fairly large room was lighted by a lamp that stood upon a rickety table before which sat a young-faced, white-haired man, very industriously writing in a small account book; upon the table before him were a number of articles very neatly arranged, among which Ravenslee noticed a cheap wrist-watch, a hair-comb, a brooch, and a small chain purse. He was yet gazing at these and at the white-haired man, who, having nodded once to the Spider, continued to write so busily, when he was startled to hear a long-drawn, shuddering sigh. Turning suddenly sharp about, he stared toward a dark corner where, among a litter of oars, misshapen bundles, boxes, and odds and ends, was a small stove, and, crouched above it, his head between his hands, he beheld Spike.

With the same instinctive feeling that he must be silent, Ravenslee approached the boy and touched him on the shoulder. Spike started and glanced up, though without lifting his head.

"Your sister is anxious about you. Why are you here?"

"Don't you know, Geoff? Ain't no one told ye?"

"What do you mean?"

"I'll show ye!"

The boy took a hurricane lamp from the floor beside him, and, having lighted it, brought Ravenslee further into that littered corner where, among the boxes and bundles and other oddments, lay what seemed to be two or three oars covered with a worn tarpaulin.

"Look, Geoff—you remember—only this morning!" Very gently he raised a corner of the tarpaulin and as he looked down, Ravenslee's breath caught suddenly.

A woman's face, very young and very placid-seeming! The long, dark hair framing the waxen features still oozed drops of water like great, slow-falling tears; and beholding this pale, still face, Ravenslee knew why he had shivered and hushed voice and step, and instinctively he bowed his uncovered head.

"You remember Maggie Finlay, Geoff, this morning, on the stairs? She—she kissed me good-by, said she was goin' away; this is what she meant—the river, Geoff! She's drowned herself, Geoff! Oh, my God!" and letting fall the tarpaulin, Spike was shaken suddenly by fierce hysterical sobbing; whereat the man, looking up from his writing, spoke harsh-voiced.

"Aw, quit it, Kid, quit it! Here I've just wrote down three rings, and she's only got one, an' that a cheap fake. Shut up, Kid, you'll make me drop blots next! Cut it out, it ain't as if she was your sister—" Hereupon Spike started and lifted a twitching face.

"My sister!" he repeated, "my sister—whatcher mean? My God, Chip, Hermy could never—come to—that!" And shivering violently, Spike turned and stumbled out of the shack. Once outside, Ravenslee set his long arm about him and felt the lad still trembling violently.

"Why, Spike!" said he, "buck up, old fellow!"

"Oh, Geoff, Hermy could never—"

"No, no—of course not!" So very silently, together and side by side, they crossed the narrow causeway.

"Gee, but I'm cold!" said the boy between chattering teeth as they turned along the wide avenue, "I—I guess it's shook me some, Geoff. Y' see, I used to go to school with Maggie once—and now—"

Reaching Mulligan's at last, they beheld numerous groups of whispering folk who thronged the little court, the doorway, and the hall beyond; they whispered together upon the stairs and murmured on dim landings. But as Ravenslee and Spike, making their way through these groups, mounted upward, they found one landing very silent and deserted, a landing where was a certain battered door whose dingy panels had been wetted with the tears of a woman's agony, had felt the yearning, heartbroken passion of a woman's quivering lips such a very few hours ago. Remembering which, Geoffrey Ravenslee, turning to look at this grimy door, beheld it vague and blurred and indistinct as he turned and climbed that much-trodden stair.

Upon the top landing they found Mrs. Trapes, who leaned over the rails to greet them.

"So you found that b'y, Mr. Geoffrey. Hermy'll be glad. You'll have heard of poor little Maggie Finlay? Poor lass—poor, lonely lass! 'T was her father drove her to it, an' now he's had a fit—a stroke, the doctor's with him now—an' Hermy, of course! She's always around where trouble is. I guess there won't be much rest for her to-night—long past midnight now! I'm glad you found that b'y. I said you would. I'll jest go down and tell Hermy; she'll be glad."

Spike stood awhile after Mrs. Trapes had gone down-stairs, very silent and with head a-droop, then, slow and heavily, turned and opened his door, but paused to speak over his shoulder in a hoarse whisper.

"Geoff—if ever—any man—made my sister go through what Maggie Finlay went through—I'd—shoot him dead—by God in Heaven, I would!"

TELLS HOW MR. RAVENSLEE WENT INTO TRADE

It was a week later, and Mr. Ravenslee leaned from the window of his room to observe the view, which consisted chiefly of dingy brick walls and dingier windows, swaying vistas of clothes in various stages of dampness, clothes that fluttered from many lines stretched across the court, from window to window, at different altitudes; for to-day it had been washing day in Mulligan's; also the evening was warm.

So Mr. Ravenslee lounged and smoked and gazed upon the many garments, viewing them with eyes of reverie. Garments, these, of every size and hue and shape and for either sex, garments that writhed and contorted themselves in fantastic dances when gently stirred by a small, cool wind which, wafting across the river from the green New Jersey shore, breathed faintly of pine woods.

He was yet in absorbed contemplation of the aerial gambols of these many garments when to him came Mrs. Trapes, clutching a hot iron.

"Mr. Geoffrey, what'll you eat for supper?" she demanded.

"Mrs. Trapes, what do you suppose I'm worthy of?"

"How about a lovely piece o' liver?"

"Liver!" he repeated, rubbing a square, smooth-shaven chin. "Hum! liver sounds a trifle clammy, doesn't it? Clammy and cold, Mrs. Trapes!"

"Cold?" said she, staring, "cold—of course not! It would be nice an' hot, with thick gravy an' a tater or so. An' as for clammy, who ever heard o' liver as wasn't? Calves' liver, mind! They can't put me off with sheep's—no, siree! Skudder's young man tried to once—he did so!"

"Foolish, foolhardy young man!" murmured Ravenslee.

"Mr. Geoffrey," sighed Mrs. Trapes, and her elbows were particularly needle-like, "I jest took that piece o' sheep's liver an' wrapped it round that young man's face."

"Unhappy young man!" murmured Mr. Ravenslee.

"Y' see, Mr. Geoffrey, though a widder an' therefore lorn, I ain't to be trod on in the matter of livers, or anything else!"

"I'm sure of it, Mrs. Trapes."

"But if you don't kind of fancy liver, how about sassiges? Sassiges is tasty an' filling, an' cheap. What d' ye say to sassiges?"

"Sausages," answered Mr. Ravenslee, shaking grave head, "sausages demand such unbounded faith in the—er—sausagee—or should it be sausage-or?"

"Oh, well—a chop, cut thick an' with a kidney in it—what d' ye say to a chop, now?"

"No, a chop in an hour, Mrs. Trapes, or say, two hours, will be most welcome. Are you very busy?"

"Washing's all done, but there's a lot o' your shirts waiting to be ironed—an' me here, lettin' me iron get cold!"

"Oh, never mind the shirts, Mrs. Trapes! Pray sit down; I need your counsel and advice."

"But me iron?"

"Give it to me—there!" and Mr. Ravenslee deposited it outside on the fire escape.

"Now Mrs. Trapes," said he, "first of all, I must find work. 'Man is born to labour, as the sparks fly upward,' you know."

"Born to sorrer, you mean!" she corrected.

"Precisely," he nodded, "work is sorrow, and sorrow is work—at least, I know a good many people who think so."

"More fools them!" quoth Mrs. Trapes, folding her arms.

"My own idea exactly!" he answered, lazily tapping out his pipe on the window sill.

"I ain't noticed you sweating none, lately!" quoth Mrs. Trapes sarcastically.

"Alas, no, Mrs. Trapes, there being no wherefore to call forth the aforesaid—er—moisture. Still, 'man is as grass that withereth' unless he 'goeth forth unto his labour.'"

"An' quite right too!" nodded Mrs. Trapes. "If I had my way I'd make 'em all work!"

"That would be rather hard on our legislators and Fifth Avenue parsons, wouldn't it? Anyway, I want work, that's sure!"

"Y' mean as your money's all gone?"

"Very nearly," sighed Mr. Ravenslee with a suitable air of dejection. And he did it so well that Mrs. Trapes, viewing him askance, frowned, bit her lip, wriggled her elbows, and finally spoke.

"Are ye up against it good, Mr. Geoffrey?"

"I am!"

"Well," said she, frowning down at the vivid-coloured hearthrug, "I got twenty-five dollars put away as I've pinched and scrinched to save, but if you want the loan of 'em, you can have 'em an' welcome."

Her lodger was silent; indeed, he was so long in answering that at last Mrs. Trapes looked up, to find him regarding her with a very strange expression.

"And you will lend me your savings?" he asked her softly.

"Sure I will!" And she would have risen then and there but that he stayed her.

"God bless you for a generous soul!" said he, and laughed rather queerly; also his grey eyes were a little brighter than usual. "Why should you trust me so far?"

"Well, you look honest, I guess. An' then we all help each other in Mulligan's now an' then, one way or another; we jest have to. There's Mrs. Bowker, third floor—the tea an' sugar as I've loaned that woman—an' last week a lovely beef-bone! Well, there! But if you want the loan of that twenty-five—"

"Mrs. Trapes, I don't. Things aren't so desperate as that yet. All I need is a job of some sort."

"What kind o' job?"

"I'm not particular."

"Well—what have you been used to?"

"Alas, Mrs. Trapes, hitherto I have lived a life of—er—riotous ease!"

"That means as you ain't worked at all, I guess. Hm!" said Mrs. Trapes, viewing him with her sharp, hawk's eye, "and yet you ain't got the look of a confidence man nor yet a swell crook, consequently I take it you was the only son of your father an' lost all he left you, eh?"

"Mrs. Trapes, you are a truly wonderful woman!"

"T' be born the only son of a rich father is a pretty bad disease, I reckon!" she continued, "yes, siree, it's bad for the child an' worse for the man; it's bound to be his ruination in the end—like drink! And talkin' o' drink, I'm glad to see that b'y Arthur's so fond o' you."

"Oh, why?"

"Because you don't drink."

"Well, I don't go to bed in my boots, do I, Mrs. Trapes? But then I promised you I wouldn't, and, for another thing, I'm not a poet, you see," said he and yawned lazily.

"Hermy says she's glad too."

Mr. Ravenslee cut short his yawn in the middle.

"Hermione? Did she say so? When?"

"Ah, I guessed that would wake ye up a bit!" said Mrs. Trapes, noting his suddenly eager look. "It's a pity you're so poor, ain't it?"

"Why? What do you mean?"

"I mean if you had been in a good situation an' making good money—twenty-five per, say—you might have asked her."

"Asked her?" repeated Ravenslee, staring, "asked her what?"

"Why, t' marry you, o' course," nodded Mrs. Trapes. "You love her about as much as any man can love—which is sometimes a thimbleful an' sometimes a bit more—but you sure love her as much as a man knows how, I guess. An' don't try for ter deny it, Mr. Geoffrey, I ain't blind, leastways I can see a bit out o' one eye sometimes—specially where Hermy's concerned, I can so. Of course, you ain't worthy of her—but then no man is, to my mind!"

"No, I'm not worthy of her, God knows!" said Ravenslee, quite humbly.

"An' Hermy's goin' to marry a man with money. Her heart's set on it—firm!"

"Money!" said Ravenslee, scowling. "She seems anything but mercenary."

"Mercenary!" cried Mrs. Trapes, "I should say not! I tell ye, she could be a-rollin' around in a six-thousand-dollar automobile at this very hour if she was that kind. With her face an' figure! She could so!"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean as there's men—rich men, an' married too—as is mad after her—"

"Ah!" said Ravenslee, frowning again.

"You may well say 'ah!'" nodded Mrs. Trapes. "Men is all beasts more or less! Why, I could tell you things—well, there! Hermy ain't no innocent babe but there's some things better than innocence an' that's a chin—will-power, Mr. Geoffrey. If a woman's sweet an' strong an' healthy like Hermy, an' got a chin—nothin' can harm her. But beauty like hers is a curse to any good woman if she's poor, beauty being a quick-seller, y' see!"

"Yes, I see—I know!" said Ravenslee, clenching his hands and frowning blacker than ever.

"But," continued Mrs. Trapes, and here she leaned forward to touch him with an impressive, toil-worn hand, "Hermy Chesterton's jest a angel o' light an' purity; she always has been an' always will be, but she knows about as much as a good girl can know. She's seen the worst o' poverty, an' she's made up her mind, when she marries, to marry a man as is a man an' can give her all the money she wants. So y' see it ain't no good you wastin' your time danglin' around after her an' sighin'—now is it?"

"Why, no, Mrs. Trapes, I think I'll speak to her to-night—"

"My land! ain't I jest been tryin' to show you as you ain't a fit or worthy party to speak, an' as you won't have a chance if you do speak, her 'eart bein' set on wealth? But you can't speak—you won't speak—I know you won't!"

"Why not?"

"First, because t' night she's away at Englewood makin' a dress for Mrs. Crawley as is very fond of her. An' second, because you ain't the man to ask a girl to marry him when he ain't got nothin' t' keep her on—you know you ain't!"

"Which brings us back to the undoubted fact that I must get a job—at once."

"Hm!" said, Mrs. Trapes, viewing his clean-cut features and powerful figure with approval, "what could y' do?"

"Anything, so long as I can make good, Mrs. Trapes. What should you suggest?"

"Well," said Mrs. Trapes, caressing an elbow thoughtfully, "grocers' assistants makes good money—an' I know Mr. Smith wants a butterman."

"Good," nodded Ravenslee, "I should like to batter butter about—"

"Are ye used to butter?"

"Oh, I've a decided taste for it!"

"Know much about it?"

"Certainly—it is a yellowish, fatty substance concocted by human agency supposedly from the lacteous secretion of the graminivorous quadruped familiarly known as the common (or garden) cow."

"Land sakes!" said Mrs. Trapes, drawing a deep breath, "you sure do know something about it. Ever worked in it before?"

"Only with my teeth."

"Oh—quit your jollying, Mr. Geoffrey, if you want me t' help you!"

"Solemn as an owl, Mrs. Trapes!"

"Well, then, there's Jacob Pffeffenfifer wants a young man in his delicatessen store."

"Mrs. Trapes, I can slice ham and beef with any one on earth."

"D' ye understand picklin' and seasonin'?"

"Ah, there you have me again; I fear I don't."

"Then you ain't no good to Jacob Pffeffenfifer!"

"On second thoughts, I'm not wholly sorry," answered Ravenslee gravely. "You see, a name like that would worry me, it would shake my nerve; I might cut beef instead of ham, or ham instead of—"

"Mr. Geoffrey!" quoth Mrs. Trapes, squaring her elbows.

"Sober as a judge, Mrs. Trapes and—by Jupiter!"

"My land! What is it?"

"An idea—look!" and Ravenslee pointed down into the yard.

"Why, it's only Tony!" said Mrs. Trapes, glancing down a vista of riotous garments.

"Precisely," answered Ravenslee, rising and stretching his long arms, "Tony has solved my difficulty; I'll go into the peanut trade."

"What? Sell peanuts? You?"

"Why not? 'Man is born—' you know."

"But—my land! Only dagos and guinneys sells peanuts!"

"Splendid! I shall be the exception, Mrs. Trapes. Anyway, a peanut man I'll be!" And catching up his disreputable hat, Ravenslee nodded and left his landlady staring after him and murmuring "well!" at intervals. Presently she reached for her iron, stone-cold long since, and stood awhile clutching it in bony fingers and staring at nothing in particular.

"He's sure a man, Hermy my dear!" she said at last, nodding at the stuffed parrot in the corner. "I've watched him careful and I know. And there's some things better than money, my dear—ah, much better! So if I should help to bring you into his arms—man an' wife, my dear—why, I guess it would be the best thing Anne Angelina Trapes ever done—yes, mam!" Saying which, she went back to her ironing.

On the stairs Ravenslee met Spike, who hailed him joyously.

"Say, Geoff, I'm all alone to-night; come an' eat supper with me—how about it?"

"Suppose you have supper at Mrs. Trapes' with me?"

"No, she gets on me nerves—so come on over, will you?"

"With pleasure."

"'N' say, I'm a few chips shy on butter, Geoff—bring in ten cents' worth, will you?"

"Right, O comrade, I'll be with you anon. Make boil the kettle against my coming," and Ravenslee hastened down the stairs. Reaching the court he met the Italian trundling his barrow toward a certain shed, its usual nocturnal biding place.

"How goes it, Tony?" he enquired, shaking hands.

The Italian nodded and flashed his teeth. "Ver-a good, pal!" he answered.

"Tony, where can I get a peanut outfit like yours?"

"Ha! You go-a in-a da peanut-a beezneez, hey? You want-a push-a de cart, hey?"

"That's it, Tony."

"Ver-a good!" nodded the good-natured Italian. "You come-a long-a me, pal. I take-a you get-a push-a-de-cart, up-a de street, yes?" Having very soon locked away his barrow, the loquacious Tony led Ravenslee along certain streets and into a certain yard, where presently appeared a stout man with rings in his ears, who smiled and nodded and greeted them with up-flung finger and the word "altro." Presently Ravenslee found himself examining a highly ornate barrow fitted with stove and outfit complete, even unto the whistle, and mounted upon a pair of the rosiest wheels he had ever seen. Thereafter were more smiles and nods, accompanied by the ever recurrent "altro", the transfer of certain bills into the stout man's pocket, and Geoffrey Ravenslee sallied forth into the street, bound for Mulligan's, with the chattering Tony beside him and the gaily-painted barrow before him, receiving many friendly hints as to the pitfalls and intricacies of the peanut trade and hearkening with unflagging interest to the story of "lil Pietro" and the unbounded goodness of "da Signorina Hermione."

ANTAGONISM IS BORN AND WAR DECLARED

"Why—hello, Hermy!" exclaimed Spike, pausing in the doorway. "Gee, I thought you was—were in Englewood."

Hermione lifted her golden head, stayed her humming sewing-machine, and smiled at him.

"And I thought I'd come home and surprise you. Aren't you glad to see me, boy dear?"

"Why, sure I am!" he answered, and stooping, kissed a golden curl that wantoned at her white temple; which done, he sprawled in the easy-chair and taking a newspaper from his pocket, fell to studying the latest baseball scores while Hermione, head bent above her work again, glanced at him now and then rather wistfully.

"Gee whiz," he exclaimed suddenly, "the Giants put it all over Cincinnati to-day, Hermy. Y' see, Matty was in th' box, an' he sure pitched some game!"

Hermione stopped her machine and looked at him under wrinkling brows.

"I thought you were hunting through the 'wanted' columns, Arthur?"

"Why, y' see I ain't—haven't got to the ads yet, Hermy."

Hermione sighed softly and, resting her round chin in her hands, viewed him silently awhile until, becoming aware of the steadfast gaze of those sweet and gentle eyes, Spike shuffled uneasily and changed colour.

"Arthur," she said softly, "when you promised me to try and find a situation you meant it, didn't you?"

"Sure I did!"

"That was a week ago, dear."

"But, Hermy, I went after that office-boy's job—you know I did!"

"Yes, dear, though you got there too late."

"No, I wasn't late, Hermy, only another guy happened t' get there first—an' got the job! A kid I could have licked with one hand, too. One of these mommer's pets in a nobby sack suit—all dolled up in a clean collar an' a bow-tie an' grey kid gloves. I guess his outfit helped him a whole lot—an' y' see I'm a few chips shy on clothes, I guess."

Hermione looked at her brother's worn garments, shiny at elbow and knee, and as she looked, her eyes were suddenly suffused.

"Yes, dear, I—I'm afraid they are—rather shabby," she admitted humbly. "Your clothes always did seem to wear out so very quickly! And—and it costs so much to live! And—sometimes I grow—afraid—"

The smooth, low voice faltered and ended upon a sob. Spike stared in wide-eyed amaze, for seldom had he seen his sister thus, but now, beholding the droop of that brave head, seeing how her strong white hands gripped each other, he tossed the paper aside, and flinging himself on his knees clasped her in his arms.

"Don't cry, Hermy!" he pleaded. "Oh, don't cry, I—I can't bear it. You know I love you best in the world—ah, don't cry, dear. I—I'll hunt up a job first thing—honest I will—"

"But your clothes are so very shabby!" she sobbed, "and oh, boy dear, I have only just enough to—pay our rent this month—so I can't get you any more—yet, dear!"

"Hermy," said he brokenly, "oh, Hermy, you make me feel so mean I—I—One sure thing you're never goin' t' spend your money on clothes for me any more—? the money you work so hard for! Never any more, Hermy dear. You've done enough for me, I guess, an' now it's up t' me to help you and—and—oh, Gee!" Here Spike's voice broke altogether, whereupon Hermione, quite forgetting her own sorrows and worries, fell to soothing and comforting him as she had done many and many a time during his motherless childhood.

"Say, Hermy," said he at last, his tear-stained cheek pillowed on her soft, round bosom, "you won't think me a—an awful kid for—for cryin', will you?"

"I think I love you all the better, boy dear, and—I'm sure it has done us both good," and, smiling down at him through her tears, she kissed him.

"I'll start in an' rustle up a job right away, Hermy!" said he, rising and nodding grimly.

"Oh, boy," said she, looking up at him fondly, "I shall be so proud of you. It wouldn't matter what it was, or how little you got at first, so long as it was decent and honourable. And I'm sure you'll get on—Mr. Geoffrey thinks so too."

"Does he? I'm glad o' that. Say, how d'ye like Geoff?"

"Oh—well, I've only seen him two or three times," said Hermione, folding away her work preparatory to cooking supper.

"Is that all?" said Spike, smoothing out the paper and scowling at the long columns headed "Help Wanted."

"Ye-es, I think so."

"But you an' him 's always meetin' on the stairs, ain't—aren't you?"

"You should say 'he and you', dear."

"Well—but aren't you?"

"We have met—once or twice."

"D'ye like him?"

"Well, he's so very—different! And rather lazy! And awfully sleepy! And yet I don't think he's sleepy really, somehow."

"Sleepy?" exclaimed Spike. "Well, I guess not! Lazy I dunno, but he sure is all to the wide-awake-o. When he looks sleepiest, I guess he's widest-awakest. And he ain't a—isn't a bad looker, is he?"

"He has nice eyes!" Hermione admitted.

"Oh, I don't mean his eyes!" quoth Spike disgustedly. "I mean his arms an' legs an' shoulders."

"They are nice and wide!" nodded Hermione.

"I should like t' see Geoff in th' ring. He'd strip big!"

"Oh, really," said Hermione, taking a very large apron from the table drawer. "Boy, dear, I do wish you weren't always thinking of fighting."

"All right, Hermy dear. But there ain't no flies on Geoff—'n' say, I want yer to like him 'cause I kinder think he's all to the cream-puffs an'—"

"Arthur!" cried Hermione, lifting an admonishing finger.

"I'm sorry; my tongue kinder slipped, Hermy. But I have been trying t' keep tabs on me talk, honest I have."

"Yes, dear. You haven't been quite so frightful lately."

"Y' see, Hermy, you're different; you went to a swell school an'—"

"And you never did—I know, dear. But oh, Arthur, I did the best I could."

"And a lot better than I deserved," said he, reaching out to pat her hand caressingly. "When I get a good job, I'll stay in nights and study hard like you want me to—I sure will."

"Yes, dear, and you'll soon be heaps cleverer than I am," said she, stooping to kiss his curly head as she tied the apron about her shapely hips; and then, giving him a smiling nod, she vanished into the kitchen, while Spike laboured through the long columns headed "Help Wanted." And presently, as she moved light-footed to and fro in the kitchen, he heard her singing softly to herself, an old, old song of other days that had often been his lullaby when he was a small, motherless armful of sleepiness hushed in her young, protecting clasp.

"Arthur!" she called.

"Hello!" he answered.

"Are you hungry?"

"You bet I am!"

A long pause, whereafter ensued the following conversation between kitchen and parlour:

Hermione. "Boy dear!"

Spike. "Hello!"

Hermione. "Be a dear and lay the cloth for me!"

Spike. "Right-o!"

A longer pause, during which Spike rises and takes cloth from sideboard drawer.

Hermione. "Arthur!"

Spike. "Yes?"

Hermione. "Where did you meet him?"

Spike (starting). "Who?"

Hermione. "Mr. Geoffrey. How did you happen to meet each other?"

Another pause, while Spike stands frowning in perplexed thought.

Spike. "Where did you say the cloth was?"

Hermione. "In the sideboard drawer. How long have you known him?"

Spike (beginning to lay the cloth feverishly). "Oh, a goodish time. Say, Hermy, he sure likes your name a whole lot!"

Hermione. "Oh!" (A very small pause.) "Likes my name, does he?"

Spike. "He sure does. He told me so."

Hermione. "Oh!" (Another small pause.) "Just what did he say, boy dear?"

Spike. "He said it was Greek an' very beautiful, an' then I said it kind of fitted you because you were aces up on the face an' figure question."

A rush of petticoats, and enter Hermione, flushed and laughing.

"You dear boy!" she cried, "for that you shall be kissed!" which he was forthwith; after which she turned to the mirror to smooth back a shining tress of hair—that same rebellious curl that glistened above her fine, black eyebrow.

"Where did you say you first met him—Mr. Geoffrey?" she enquired suddenly, still busied with the rebellious curl. Spike started, and glanced uneasily at her shapely back.

"Say, Hermy," said he, a little huskily, "have you got anything for supper?"

"Not much, dear, I'm afraid."

"That's a pity!"

"Why?"

"Oh, because I asked him in to supper."

"You asked Mr. Geoffrey—here?" she gasped.

"Surest thing you know. Y' see, I thought you was staying over at Englewood."

"Oh, Arthur!" she sighed. "And there are only two wretched little chops! And not a bit of butter! And the rent's due to-morrow—I can't spare a cent—and me in this shabby old gown! and you broke the best teapot."

"Sounds kind of gay an' festive!" sighed Spike ruefully. "But don't worry about the eats, dear. Geoff won't mind, an' he'll never notice your old gown—"

"He seems to notice a great deal," said Hermione doubtfully as she hastily untied the big apron, "and besides—oh, gracious goodness!" she cried, as a knock sounded at the front door, "you must let him in, Arthur—and don't let him know I'm changing my gown!" Saying which, she vanished into her bedroom while Spike hastened to the door.

"Why—hello, Tony!" he exclaimed, "what's wrong now?"

"My lil Pietro," cried the Italian excitedly, "he no sleep—he burn-a burn-a all-a da time,—all-a da time cry! You tell-a you sis—she come-a like-a da las' time den he no cry-a—" But here Tony broke off to flourish his hat and bow gracefully as he caught sight of Hermione herself. "Ah, Signorina!" he cried, "my lil Pietro he seeck. You please-a come see my lil Pietro? He flush-a he cry—he all-a da fire! he burn-a, burn-a, like-a da fire! You so good, so generosa—you come see my lil Pietro?"

"Why, of course I will!" said Hermione in her calm, soft voice, "poor little mite—is he feverish?"

"Si, si Signorina!" answered the anxious young father, "he burn-a, burn-a all-a da time!"

"Reach me the aconite, boy dear; yes, that's it."

"But what about supper, Hermy?" queried Spike wistfully.

"Oh, well—finish laying the table; I'll be back as soon as ever I can, dear."

"Oh, Gee!" sighed Spike, as their footsteps died away down the stair, "she sure is keen on knowing how I met Geoff! And if she ever finds out—" Spike cowered down into a chair and clasping his head between his hands sat thus a long while, staring moodily at the floor, striving for a way out of the difficulty. He was yet wrestling with this knotty problem when he heard muffled knocks at the front door, which, being opened, disclosed the object of his thoughts.

"Why, Geoff," he cried gladly, "I thought you wasn't coming. Say, what you got there?" he enquired, for Ravenslee's arms were filled with sundry packages and parcels.

"Come and see!" said Ravenslee mysteriously. "Catch this one before I drop it!"

"Why—hello," said Spike, sniffing at the package in question as he led the way into the parlour, "it smells good! It sniffs like—Holy Gee, it's a roast turkey! And—oh, say, Geoff—she's a beaut!"

"Precisely what Mr. Pffeffenfifer assured me," said Ravenslee, depositing his other burdens on the table. "Mr. Pffeffenfifer is a man educated in eats, a food fancier, an artist of the appetite! Mr. Pffeffenfifer is fat and soulful! Mr. Pffeffenfifer nearly wept tears over the virtues of that bird—pledged his mortal soul for its tenderness, vowed by all the gods it had breast enough for twins! Mr. Pffeffenfifer seemed so passionately attached to that bird that I feared he meant to keep it to gloat over in selfish secrecy. But no—base coin seduced him, did the trick and—here it is. Also we have a loaf!" and from beneath one arm Ravenslee dropped a package that resolved itself into a Vienna roll. "Also, ham—"

"Hey, Geoff," said Spike in awe-struck tones, "are all these eats?"

"Certainly. I should have brought more if I could have carried 'em."

"More?"

"Most decidedly. When I buy eats, my lad, I buy everything in sight that looks worth while—if Mr. Pffeffenfifer sells. Mr. Pffeffenfifer sells in such a soulfully seductive way that eats acquire virtues above and beyond their own base selves. Mr. Pffeffenfifer can infuse soul into a sausage. Behold now, eats the most alluring. See, what's this! Ah, yes, here we have, item: Salmi, redolent of garlic! Here again a head cheese, succulent and savoury; here's ham, most ravishingly pink—and a Camembert cheese."

"But, Jiminy Christmas—you bought such a lot of each. Who's goin' t' eat all these?"

"We, of course!"

"But we can't eat 'em all!" sighed Spike.

"Can't we?" said Ravenslee, beginning to view the quantity of the numerous viands with dubious eyes. "They do seem rather a lot now I see 'em all together. But I'm ravenous, and if we can't manage 'em, we'll find some one who can."

"Y' see, Geoff, I shan't be able t' eat any o' the rest when I'm through with the turk'!" sighed Spike, a little reproachfully. "My, but I'm hungry! Strange how hungry cold turkey makes a guy!"

"Why, then," said Ravenslee, pitching his hat into a corner, "sit down, comrade, and 'let mirth with unconfined wing'—" Ravenslee yawned.

"I guess we'd better wait a bit, Geoff."

"What for?"

"Hermy."

"Is she—do you mean she's back?" enquired Ravenslee, sitting up.

"Yes, she didn't stay at Englewood; she's down-stairs, doctoring Tony's kid."

"But what will she think of all these confounded messes?"

"Messes!" cried Spike indignantly. "Cheese it, Geoff—look at that turk'!"

"But—do you think she'll—mind?" enquired Ravenslee uneasily.

"Mind?" said Spike, staring. "Not on your life—why should she? Besides, it's kind o' lucky you happened to blow in with this free lunch; she's a bit shy on the dollar question this month—an' Mulligan comes t'morrow. An' oh, say, Geoff—she's dead set on findin' out how I met you an'—an' where."

"Very naturally!" murmured Ravenslee.

"An' we must tell her something—but what?"

"Spike, you've forgotten the mustard! And as for—er—lying to your sister, let our motto be 'sufficient unto the day.' Our present need is mustard, Spike."

"Say, this sure is goin' t' be some supper, Geoff!" said Spike, setting on the mustard and gazing at the array of edibles with shining eyes. "Gee, I could eat cold turkey all night!"

"Have we everything ready, Spike?"

"Except butter, Geoff."

"Ha! the one thing I forgot, of course! Cut off and get some like the good fellow you are!" and Ravenslee flicked a bill into Spike's hand, who, seizing his cap, promptly vanished. Being alone, Ravenslee crossed to the sideboard, and taking thence a certain photograph, seated himself in the easy-chair and fell to studying it with deep and grave attention. And sitting thus, he let fancy run riot—and fancy was singularly pleasing to judge by the glow in his eyes and the tender smile that curved his lip.

He was lost deep within his dreams when he was aware of a loud knock upon the outer door which Spike had left unlatched and, replacing the photograph, he rose.

"Come in!" said he. A heavy step sounded in the little hall, the door was pushed open, and a man entered. He was a young man, big and broad-shouldered, and Ravenslee's keen eyes were quick to heed the length and ponderous carriage of the arms, the girth of chest, and firm, heavy poise of the feet; lastly he looked at the face, aggressively handsome with its dominating nose and chin, and blue eyes shaded by thick lashes, that looked out beneath heavy brows—a comely-seeming face from the dark, close-cropped hair to the deep cleft in the strong, fleshy chin.

But now, beneath Ravenslee's persistent regard, the full-curved, shapely lips grew slowly into a cruel, down-trending line, the nostrils expanded, while the blue eyes narrowed to shining slits beneath quick-scowling, black brows. For a long moment the two men stared at each other, eye to eye, then, in a hoarse, assertive tone the newcomer spoke.

"What you doin' here? Who are ye?"

Mr. Ravenslee sat down and began to fill his pipe.

"Where's d' Kid?"

Mr. Ravenslee brushed stray grains of tobacco from his knee with elaborate care.

"Hey, you! Where's Spike—'n' what you doin' here, anyway?"

Mr. Ravenslee glanced up casually. "And pray, who the devil may you be pleased to be?" he enquired.

"Me name's M'Ginnis!"

"Oh, indeed?"

"Yes—indeed! Bud M'Ginnis—Is that good 'nuff for ye?"

"Well, since you ask," said Ravenslee, shaking languid head, "I should scarcely class you as a 'bud' myself. No—I should say you were perhaps just a trifle—er—overblown. But have it your own way!" and Mr. Ravenslee smiled engagingly.

"Where's Spike?" demanded M'Ginnis, his tone a little gruffer, "and say—you can cut out the comedy, see? Nix on the funny business."

"You are a pessimist, I presume, Mr. Flowers?"

"Where's d' Kid? Speak up now—where is he?"

"Also, your conversation grows a little monotonous, Mr. Flowers."

M'Ginnis stared, then shot out his big chin viciously.

"What you doin' in Hermy's flat, eh?"

Mr. Ravenslee's brows wrinkled slightly, but his soft voice grew softer, as, pausing in the act of lighting his pipe, he answered: "On the whole I think you are a rather—er—unpleasant young man, so suppose you—er—go—"

"What? Go? Are ye tryin' t' tell me t' go?"

"I'm suggesting that you—er—crank up the machine, Mr. Flowers, and beat it while the going's good!"

M'Ginnis clenched his fist and took a threatening step toward Ravenslee, then checked himself and stood breathing heavily.

"May I further suggest," said Ravenslee in his pleasantest voice, "that you look in again—say next Thursday fortnight, Mr. Flowers?"

"T' hell with you—me name's M'Ginnis."

"Of course you might leave a message, Mr. Flowers—"

"Now, see here, you!" said M'Ginnis, his words coming thick with passion. "I wanter know, first, where Spike is. And then I wanter know who you are. And then I wanter know what you're after in Hermy Chesterton's flat—and you're sure goin' t' tell me!"

"Am I?"

"You sure are!"

Mr. Ravenslee opened the matchbox. "Seems a pity to shake a confidence so sublime," he sighed. "And yet—"

"An' see here again! I've known Hermy since we was kids, an' I don't allow no man t' come stamping around here—see? So you're goin' t' quit, an' you're goin' t' quit right now!"

"Do I look like a quitter, Mr. Flowers?"

Now beholding the speaker's lazy assurance of pose, the contemptuous indifference of his general air, M'Ginnis stood speechless a moment, his clenched fists quivering, while, above the loosely-tied scarf, his powerful neck seemed to swell and show knotted cords that writhed and twisted, and when at last he spoke, his words came in a panting rush.

"This is Hermy's flat, an' I guess—you think you're safe here—but you ain't! I'm thinkin' out which'll do th' least harm to her furniture—to lick ye here or drag you out on to the landin' first!"

Mr. Ravenslee lounged lower in the armchair and yawned behind the box of matches. And in that moment, like a maddened animal, M'Ginnis leapt upon him and, striking no blow, seized and shook Ravenslee in powerful, frantic hands, while from between his lips, curled back from big, white teeth, came a continuous, vicious, hissing sound.

"I'll wake ye up!" he panted. "Come out—come out, I say—oh, I'll wake ye up when I get ye outside, I guess. Come out! What you doin' in Hermy's flat? By God! I'll choke ye till you tell me!" and his hands came upon Ravenslee's throat—came to be met there by two other hands that, closing upon his wrists, wrenched and twisted viciously in opposite directions and, loosing his hold, M'Ginnis fell back, staring down at bruised and lacerated skin where oozed a few slow drops of blood.

"And now," said Ravenslee, rising, "after you, Mr. Flowers! Let us by all means step outside, where we will each earnestly endeavour to pitch the other down-stairs—personally, I shall do my very damnedest, for really I don't—no, I do not like you, Mr. Flowers; you need some one to tread on you a little. Step outside and let me try."

While M'Ginnis stared from his swelling, bloody wrists to Ravenslee's face—a face quite as fierce and determined as his own—steps were heard and Spike's voice called:

"Hermy come in yet, Geoff?"

"Not yet—but our friend Mr. Flowers has dropped in—socially, I fancy."

"Mr. Who?" enquired Spike at the door, but beholding M'Ginnis's angry face, he paused there, staring aghast. "Why—hello, Bud!" said he nervously. "What's wrong?"

"Nothin' much—yet, Kid, only it's kinder lucky for this guy as you happened in. Who is he? What's he doin' here?"

"He's only a friend o' mine, Bud, an' he's all right, 'n' say—"

"Tell him t' beat it."

"But y'see, Bud—"

"Tell him as we don't want his kind around here or—"

"Spike, did you bring in the butter?" enquired Ravenslee, serenely unconscious of M'Ginnis.

"Yes, here it is, Geoff—but say—"

"It doesn't feel much," said Ravenslee, weighing the package in his hand.

"It's half a pound. But say, here's Bud; he says you're to—"

"My, Spike, I'll trouble you for the butter-dish—thanks!" and turning away, Ravenslee busied himself at the table, whistling softly the while.

"But, Geoff, this is Bud!" cried the lad, glancing from one to the other in an agony of suspense. "Oh, don' ye know dis is Bud M'Ginnis?"

"Ah, still here, is he?" said Ravenslee, without looking round.

"See here, Kid," growled M'Ginnis, "you tell your—friend t' clear out an' t' do it real quick, see? You tell him if he ain't out in two minutes, I'll run him out meself—"

"Spike, this butter is nearly oil."

"Oh, Geoff," groaned the boy, "you've got t' go—here's Bud—"

"Why, then, Spike, tell him to—er—chase himself; I'm busy!" Came the sound of a chair set roughly aside and a shrill cry from Spike: "My God, Bud—don't! Look out, Geoff!"

But, as M'Ginnis came, Ravenslee turned swiftly, ducked the expected blow, and swinging his fist up beneath his assailant's extended arm, smote him hard and true upon the elbow; and Spike, pale and wide of eye, saw that arm fall and dangle helplessly at M'Ginnis' side, while his face was contorted with sharp agony.

"My God, Geoff! What you done t' him?"

"Pins and needles, Spike—that's all. A hoary old trick, but useful now and then. Mr. Flowers isn't so very wide-awake as folks seem to think. You see, it wouldn't have done to knock him out here; he might have upset the table."

"Knock out Bud!" cried Spike, aghast. "But there ain't nobody can lick Bud M'Ginnis!"

"Oh, I don't know, Spike. Anyway, we'll see what can be done—outside! After you, Mr. Flowers! Pray go first, Mr. Flowers! A fellow who would attack a man sitting down isn't to be trusted behind one—so, after you, Mr. Flowers. Oh, we'll wait until you can use your arm, but we'll wait outside. Miss Chesterton's flat is no place for your sort, so—out with you, and quick—d'ye hear?"

M'Ginnis opened his lips to retort, but passion choked him, and snarling unintelligibly, he turned and strode out upon the landing. As they stood fronting each other, very silent and grim and menacing, running feet were heard ascending the stairs, and a slender boy appeared, who, perceiving M'Ginnis, panted out:

"Say, Bud, O'Rourke's been pinched by d' cops! He wants ye t' skin over an' fix it up—"

"O'Rourke pinched?" growled M'Ginnis. "Say you, Larry, what yer givin' me?"

"S' right, Bud, dere's a noo captain on d' precinct, an' he's pinched O'Rourke. 'N' say, Bud, d' game's all balled up; d' push is all up in d' air. 'N' say, O'Rourke's crazy an' can't do nothin', so he sent me t' fetch ye. You're d' only one as can fix d' police, so come on right now before d' whole show's busted up." During this breathless speech the narrowed eyes of M'Ginnis never left Ravenslee's pale, placid face, and in the persistence of this ferocious glare was something animal-like.

"Say, you—Mr. Butt-in!" said he, "I ain't through wid you—not by a whole lot I ain't. Oh, I'll get ye yet, an' I'll get ye good! There won't be nothin' left for nobody else when I'm through wid you. Savvy this—there ain't nobody ever goin' t' queer me with Hermy Chesterton. Oh, I'll get ye good, an' I'll get ye—soon!"

So saying, Bud M'Ginnis turned, and went slowly and unwillingly down the stair.

"Gee, but I'm glad he's gone!" said Spike, as he closed the door. "Gee, but I'm—glad!" and he drew a deep breath.

"So am I!" said Ravenslee, sinking into the armchair, "but there's always to-morrow, isn't there?"

But instead of replying, Spike stood to stare on Ravenslee with eyes of admiring awe.

"I guess you know how t' handle y' self, Geoff," said he.

"I used to think I could, once upon a time," answered Ravenslee, stooping to recover his pipe.

"That sure was some wallop you handed him!"

"'T was fair, I thank you, comrade!"

"I shall be awful sorry to have you leave me, Geoff."

"Leave you?"

"Well, you heard what he said?"

"Yes, I heard."

"An' you know what he meant?"

"I can guess."

"You'd best skin out o' Mulligan's first thing to-morrow."

"What for?"

"Bud says you must, an' he'll make you, worse luck!"

"Oh, how?"

"Well," said Spike in low, troubled tones, "he'll sic d' gang on to you if you don't make your get-away while you can—"

"By God!" exclaimed Ravenslee, his eyes suddenly very bright, "I never thought of that!"

"Yes, so I'm thinking you'd best skin off t'night, Geoff!" sighed the lad gloomily, whereupon Ravenslee, pocketing his pipe, clapped him joyously upon the shoulder.

"Banish that dejection, my comrade," said he, "for now, my Arthur-Spike, 'now is the winter of our discontent made glorious summer in this brutal Bud' and—"

"What yer mean, Geoff?"

"I mean that life's erstwhile dull monotony is like to be forgotten quite in the vigorous, exhilarating air of Hell's Kitchen. Hell's Kitchen suits me admirably, consequently in Hell's Kitchen I'll stay."

"Stay? Geoff, are ye crazy? What about Bud M'Ginnis?"

"M'Ginnis, my Arthur? Oh, Bud M'Ginnis may be—hush! Straighten the cloth yonder, Spike; she's coming at last, by Heaven!"