The Definite Object: A Romance of New York

IN WHICH THE POISON BEGINS TO WORK

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

"Arthur, dear—why so gloomy?"

"I ain't—I mean, I'm not."

"You're not sulking about anything?"

"No."

"Then you're sick."

"I'm all right."

"But you didn't enjoy your dinner a little bit."

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

"Boy, dear—what is it?"

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

"Oh, Mr. Geoffrey brought them."

"Been here, has he?"

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

"Did he—did he stay long?"

"N-o, I don't think so—why?"

"Comes round here pretty often, don't he?"

"Why, you see, he's your friend, dear, and we are very near neighbours."

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hermione's black brows knit in a sudden frown. "Arthur, don't be silly!"

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

"Arthur—stop!"

"Well, but what's he always crawlin' around here for?"

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

"But you're a girl, an' he's a man an'—"

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

"Where did you meet M'Ginnis as you came home, Arthur?"

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

"You did."

"I never said a word about meetin' him."

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

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

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

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

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

"Why, of course I will."

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

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

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

"Brought back yer roof!" replied the lad.

"Well, where is it?"

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

"Where'd you find it?"

"Bud give it me, 'n' say—"

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

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

"I ain't comin'!"

"But say, you're t' fight Young Alf, 'n' say—"

"I ain't comin'!"

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

"I can't help what Bud says; I ain't comin'."

"Not comin'!" exclaimed Larry, his eyes rounder than ever.

"No!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Who's in my corner?"

"Now you're talkin', Kiddo; I know as you—"

"Who's in my corner?"

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

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

"You bet there ain't!" grinned Larry, "come on, Kid!"

OF AN EXPEDITION BY NIGHT

"Why, Mr. Geoffrey, what you settin' here in the dark for?"

"Is it dark, Mrs. Trapes?"

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

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

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

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

"'Fulness thereof' meanin' jest what, Mr. Geoffrey?"

"The most beautiful thing in a beautiful world, Mrs. Trapes."

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

"It does."

"An' what did she say?"

"Nothing."

"Nothin'?"

"Not with her lips, but—"

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

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

"Why, if it ain't that blessed guinney! Go away—what d'ye want?"

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

"My land!" said Mrs. Trapes, staring. "What's the matter with the Eyetalian iji't now?"

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

"Eh—Arthur fightin'—where?"

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

"Oh!" exclaimed Mrs. Trapes, "you mean as that b'y's off boxin' again?"

"Si, si—he go make-a-da-box-fight."

"Is he over at O'Rourke's, Tony?" enquired Ravenslee, sitting upright.

"I bet-a-my-life, yes—"

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

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

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

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

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

"That's just what I am doing."

"Well, s'posin' they hurt you! What'll Hermy do?"

"You think she'd mind, then, though I'm—only a peanut man?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What's doin', Geoff?" he enquired.

"I'm off to O'Rourke's—coming?"

"Not much! An' say, 't ain't worth your trouble—I ain't fightin'. Nawthin' but a lot o' fifth-raters."

"I'm going over to fetch Spike."

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

"Not if I can help it, Spider."

"Aw—come off, bo! D'ye think Bud'll let him go?"

"I shan't ask Bud—or any one else."

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

"I shall try."

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

"I'm wondering if you'll come along and help?" said Ravenslee lazily.

"Me? Not so's you could notice it. I ain't huntin' that sort o' trouble."

"Oh, well, if you think you'd—er—better not, I'll go alone."

"What, yer goin', are ye?"

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

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

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

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

"How you goin' t' work it?" he enquired suddenly.

"I don't know yet."

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

"We must dodge 'em, Spider."

"S'pose we can't?"

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

"Know the place, do ye?"

"I've looked it over. We can get in behind the annex, can't we?"

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

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

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

"How much are you getting on this job, Spider?"

"Oh—well—I mean—say, what's th' time, bo?"

"Five minutes after eight—why?"

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

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

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

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

"No, we'll go together."

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

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

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

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

"Oh, why?"

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

"I see!" nodded Ravenslee.

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

"I do!" nodded Ravenslee.

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

Ravenslee shook his head.

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

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

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

Below in small type he read this:

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

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

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

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

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

"And I've got you," said Ravenslee pleasantly; "we seem to have got each other, don't we?"

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

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

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

"You surprise me!" said Ravenslee sleepily.

"You're goin' t' quit Hell's Kitchen for good and—you ain't comin' back!"

"You amaze me!" and Ravenslee yawned behind his hand.

"An' now you're goin' t' listen why an' wherefore—if you can keep awake a minute!"

"I'll try, Mr. Flowers, I'll try."

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

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

"Almost think you're trying to be rude, Mr. Flowers."

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

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

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

"How much?" he demanded.

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

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

"What—you?" said M'Ginnis, and laughed hoarsely, while Ravenslee yawned again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Bo, what about Bud?"

"Oh, he's lying around somewhere."

"Hully Chee—d' ye mean—"

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

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

"Why, what's wrong with Spike?"

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

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

"It's dope all right," nodded the Spider, "or else Bud's mixed th' drinks on him."

"Damn him!" said Ravenslee softly. "I wish I'd throttled a little harder!"

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

"Good night, Spider, and—thank you. Oh, by the way, who's Heine?"

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

"Well, for one thing, I know he's been arrested in Jersey City—"

"Heine? Pinched? Say, bo, what yer givin' us—who says so?"

"Bud, and—"

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

HOW M'GINNIS THREATENED AND—WENT

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

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

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

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

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

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

"All right," he muttered, "I'll go t' bed, only—leave me, see!"

"Can't I help you?"

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

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

"You leave my sister alone; she ain't—that kind, an' she ain't fer you, anyway."

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

"Give me that stuff, old fellow."

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

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

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

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

"Why, Spike! Why, Arthur, old chap—never mind—"

"Gimme th' bottle, Geoff! Be a pal an' gimme th' stuff—I want t' forget!"

"This wouldn't help you."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Go away!" she moaned, "go away!"

"Oh, I'll go, but first I'll tell you this—"

"I think not, Mr. Flowers—no, I'm sure you won't!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You—you're not afraid—of me, are you, Hermione?"

"No."

"And you're not—crying, are you?"

"No."

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

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

TELLS OF AN EARLY MORNING VISIT AND A WARNING

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

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

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