The Definite Object: A Romance of New York

WHICH MAKES FURTHER MENTION OF A RING

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

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

"'S right!" murmured the pale one imperturbably.

"Fond of tomatoes?" enquired Ravenslee.

"Aw!" answered his neighbour, "quit foolin'—talk sense!"

"Certainly! Why do you follow me, Soapy?"

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

"Know me, hey?" he enquired.

"Heaven forbid! 'T was a bolt at a venture—a shot in the dark."

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

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

"Aw—well—say what?"

"Well, talking of shooting—yours!"

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

"Say, sport—where'd you—get that—ring?"

"Why do you ask?"

"'Cause I want to know, I guess."

"Think you've seen it before?"

"Sport, I don't think—I know. I seen it many a time. I'd know it in a million, sure."

"Where did you see it before?"

"On M'Ginnis's mitt. It useter belong t' Bud."

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

"Where'd you get that ring, sport?" Soapy repeated.

"From Maggie Finlay's father!"

Soapy turned away to stare at the tomato cans again.

"Meanin'?" he enquired at last, hoarser than before.

"That once upon a time it belonged to—her."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Dear," she whispered, "what is it?"

"That tapping sound," he answered, still gazing upward.

"It's only the woodpecker."

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

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

"What frightened you, Hermione—who was it?"

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

"Not—M'Ginnis?" he demanded, fierce-eyed.

"No—no, I'm sure it wasn't!"

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

"Hermione—when will you marry me?"

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

"That means I must go!" she sighed.

"Hermione—when will you marry me?"

"Good-by—good-by—I must run!"

But his long arms only clasped her the closer.

"Hermione, when will you be my wife?"

"Oh, please, please let me go; if I'm late—"

"When, Hermione?"

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

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

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

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

MRS. TRAPES UPON THE MILLENNIUM

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

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

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

"Why, really, Mrs. Trapes, I—"

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

"Souls?" said Ravenslee, staring in his turn.

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

"What is the matter, Mrs. Trapes?"

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

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

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

"Quite a—er—remarkable document, Mrs. Trapes!"

"Remarkable?" snorted Mrs. Trapes.

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

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

"Well, what more should I say?"

"Why, ain't it th' wonder o' th' whole round world? Ain't it th' merrycle of all time?"

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

"Supper?"

"I'm quite hungry—I'm always hungry lately and—"

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

"Splendidly! And I think—"

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

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

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

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

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

"Not a doubt of it!" answered Ravenslee.

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

"But he owns the place, doesn't he?"

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

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

"My land, that bit o' salmon'll bile itself t' rags!" and incontinent she vanished.

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

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

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

"That's just what I'm tellin' ye—oh, Ann, ain't it just—heavenly!"

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

"Yes, heavenly t' see th' trees an' flowers again—t' live among them, Ann."

"Samanthy Bowker—what do you mean?"

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

Mrs. Trapes fanned herself feebly with her apron.

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

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

"I did, Mrs. Bowker."

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

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

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

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

WHICH SHOULD HAVE RELATED DETAILS OF A WEDDING

"It's all very, very wonderful, Ann, dear! But then—everything is so wonderful—just lately!"

"Meanin' what, Hermy?"

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

"Oh—everything, Ann!"

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

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

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

"Dear Ann," said Hermione, her face still hidden, "can't you guess?"

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

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

"When did he speak, my dear?"

"Last Monday, Ann."

"Did he say—much?"

"He asked me to—marry him."

"Spoke of marriage, eh? Did he happen t' mention th' word—wife?"

"Oh, many times, Ann."

"Good f'r him! An' when's it t' be?"

"Oh, Ann, dear, I—I'm afraid it's—to-night!"

"T'night? My land, he's sure some hasty!"

"And so—so masterful, Ann!"

"Well, y' sure need a master. But t'night—land sakes!"

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

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

"So much, Ann, so very much—and yet—"

"You ain't scared of him, are ye?"

"No—and yet, I—I think I am—a little."

"But you'll marry him, all the same?"

"Yes."

"An' t'night?"

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

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

"And—oh, Ann, I haven't any—trousseau—"

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

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

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

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

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

"But," sighed Hermione, "don't you understand—"

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

"But—he loves dainty things, I'm sure."

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

"Do you think he'll—understand, Ann?"

"He'll be a fool if he doesn't!"

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

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

"Ann, you dear thing, as if I would!"

"Why not? That corset cover's a dream! An' then there's them—"

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

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

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

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

"Anything? Ann, dear!"

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

"Then you like him, Ann—you trust him?"

"I sure do."

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

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

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

"Yes, but how did he live? How does he? How will he?"

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

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

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

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

"But you do mean something—you always do."

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

"The Bowkers? Why, yes—I've been wondering—"

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

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

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

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

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

IN WHICH HERMIONE MAKES A FATEFUL DECISION

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Goin' away, Hermy?" he enquired softly, looking her over with his slow gaze.

"Yes."

"Goin' far, Hermy?"

"I don't know."

"Goin'—alone, Hermy?"

"Why are you here? What do you want?"

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

"To-night," she said gently, "is my wedding night."

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

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

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

"But y' can't deny it. Y' don't deny it! Say, what kind o' girl are you?"

"The kind that doesn't fear men like you."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"But—he is—Arthur's friend!"

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

"Oh," said she, smiling in bitter scorn, "what a clumsy liar you are, Bud M'Ginnis!"

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

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

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

"Let me go!"

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

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

"Ah, leave me now!" she pleaded, "you've done enough, so—go now—go!"

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

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

"Hermione," he muttered, "I—girl, are ye—sick?"

"Go!" she whispered, "go!"

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

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

"No, dear!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Oh, boy—" her voice had sunk to a whisper now, "oh, boy—say you didn't!"

"Hermy—I—can't—"

"Can't?"

"It's—it's all—true. Yes, I did! Oh, Hermy, forgive me."

"Tell me!"

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

"If—what?"

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

"So it—is—all—true!"

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

"I loved you so—I—loved—you so!" she said dully.

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

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

"Hermy, dear, I swear—oh, I swear I'll—"

"Go away!"

"Oh, Hermy, I didn't think you'd ever—turn away—from me."

"Go away!"

"Oh, Hermy—won't you listen?"

"I can't! Not now. Go away."

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

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

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

"You are—Geoffrey Ravenslee—the millionaire—aren't you?"

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

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

"How in the world," began Ravenslee, flinching, "who told—"

"He broke into your house to—steal, didn't he—didn't he?"

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

"No, nothing can alter our love," she repeated in the same dull tones. "Oh, no, nothing can ever alter that; even though you deceived me I shall always love you, I can't help it. And just because I do love you so, and because I am a thief's sister, I—oh, I can never be your wife—I couldn't, could I?"

"By God, Hermione, but you shall!" As he spoke he caught her in his arms, passionate arms that drew and held her close. Very still and unresisting she lay in his embrace, uttering no word; and stooping, he kissed her fiercely—her lips, her eyes, her white throat, her hair, and, silent still, she yielded herself to his caresses.

"You are mine, Hermione, mine always and forever! You are the one woman I long for—the wife nature intended for me! You are mine, Hermione!"

Very softly she answered, her eyes closed:

"I felt at the first there was a gulf dividing us—and now—this gulf is wider—so wide it can never be crossed by either of us. Your world is not my world, after all—you are Geoffrey Ravenslee and I am only—what I am. Newport and Fifth Avenue are a long way from Hell's Kitchen and Tenth Avenue, and they can never—never come together. And I—am a thief's sister, so please, please loose me—oh, have mercy and—let me go."

His arms fell from her and, shivering, she sank beside the table, and the pale agony of her face smote him.

"But you love me, Hermione?" he pleaded.

"If I had only known," she sighed, "I might not have learned to love you—quite so much! If I had only known!" Her voice was soft and low, her blue eyes wide and tearless, and because of this, he trembled.

"Hermione," said he gently, "all this week I have been planning for you and Arthur. I have been dreaming of our life together, yours and mine, a life so big, so wonderful, so full of happiness that I trembled, sometimes, dreading it was only a dream. Dear, the gates of our paradise are open; will you shut me out? Must I go back to my loneliness?"

"I shall be lonely, too!" she murmured brokenly. "But better, oh, far better loneliness than that some day—" she paused, her lips quivering.

"Some day, Hermione?"

"You should find that you had married not only a scrubwoman but—the sister of a—thief!" Suddenly she sprang to her feet, her clinging arms held him to her bosom and, drawing down his head, she pressed her mouth to his; holding him thus, she spoke, her voice low and quick and passionate:

"Oh, my love, my love! I do love you with every thought, with every part of me—so much, so very much that my heart is breaking, I think. But, dearest, my love is such that I would be everything fair and beautiful for you, everything proud and good and noble for you if I could. But I am only Hermy Chesterton, a Tenth Avenue girl, and—my brother—So I'm going to send you away, back to your own world, back to your own kind because—because I do love you so! Ah, God, never doubt my love, but—you must go—"

"Never, Hermione, never!"

"You must! You will, I know, because your love is a big, generous love—because you are chivalrous and strong and gentle—because I beg and implore you if you have any pity for me—go—"

"But why?—Why?"

"Oh, must I tell you that—can't you understand?"

"Why must I go, Hermione?"

"Because," she murmured, her yearning arms close about him, her face close hidden against his breast, "because I'll never—marry you—now—but I love you—love you so much that I'm afraid—ah, not of you. So, I must be alone—quite alone—to fight my battle. And now—now that I've shown you all my heart, told you all my weakness, you'll go for my sake—just for my sake—won't you?"

"Yes—I'll—go!" he answered slowly.

"Away from here—to-night?"

"Yes," he answered hoarsely, "yes!"

Then Hermione fell suddenly before him on her knees, and, before he could stay her, had caught his hands, kissing them, wetting them with her tears, and pressing them passionately to her bosom.

"I knew," she cried, "I knew that you were strong and gentle and—good. Good-by—oh, my love—good-by!"

"Hermione," said he, kissing her bowed head, "oh, my Hermione, I love you with a love that will die only when I do. I want you, and I'll never lose hope of winning you—some day, never give up my determination to marry you—never, so help me God!"

Then swiftly he turned away but, reaching the door, stooped and picked up M'Ginnis's neckerchief and, recognising it, crumpled it in fierce hand; so, with it clenched in griping fingers, he hurried away and left her there upon her knees.

HOW GEOFFREY RAVENSLEE DEPARTED FROM HELL'S KITCHEN

"What, back again already, Mr. Geoffrey?" exclaimed Mrs. Trapes, poking her head around the kitchen door, as Ravenslee entered the flat, "back so soon?"

"Only for a minute, Mrs. Trapes."

"Supper'll be ready soon—your wedding supper, eh, Mr. Geoffrey? You'll have it here with me, you an' Hermy, o' course! Smells kind o' good, don't it?"

"Delicious, Mrs. Trapes!"

"Delicious is the word, Mr. Geoffrey—stooed beef with carrots—"

"And onions, Mrs. Trapes—onions, I'm sure?"

"Well, I'll not deny a onion here an' there, Mr. Geoffrey—a stoo needs 'em."

"Ah, I knew it!" sighed Ravenslee. "I grieve that I shan't be able to eat it."

"Not eat—what, you? Say, y' ain't sick, are you?"

"Not in body, Mrs. Trapes."

"Then why no stoo?"

"Because I shan't be here. I'm going, Mrs. Trapes—I'm leaving Mulligan's now—for good—"

"Leavin'—y' mean with Hermy?"

"No—alone. Good-by, Mrs. Trapes!"

"My land!" gasped Mrs. Trapes, "what you tellin' me?"

"Good-by, Mrs. Trapes!"

"But why? Oh, dear Lord, what is it? Who—"

"I want to thank you—for all your kindness. Good-by!"

As one in a dream Mrs. Trapes extended a limp hand and stood wide of eye and pale of cheek to watch him go; and as he descended the stairs, her look of helpless, pained surprise went with him. Swiftly he strode across that familiar court, shoulders squared, chin outthrust, and eyes that glowed ominously in his pale face beneath fierce-scowling brows. As he turned into Tenth Avenue there met him the Spider.

"What you chasin' this time, bo?" he enquired.

"M'Ginnis."

"Then you're sure chasin' trouble."

"That's what I want. D' you know where he is?"

"Sure I do, but—"

The Spider paused, drawing in his breath slowly, as with experienced gaze he viewed Ravenslee's pale, set face—the delicate nostrils wide and quivering, the relentless mouth and burning eyes and all the repressed ferocity of him and, drawing back a step, the Spider shook his head.

"Bo," said he, "that's jest what I ain't goin' t' tell ye."

"Very well, I must find him."

"Don't!" said the Spider, walking on beside him, "if I didn't think a whole lot o' ye, I'd lead ye t' him."

"Oh—I shall find him, if it takes me all night."

"An' if ye do, it'll be murder, I'm dead sure—"

"Murder?" said Ravenslee with a flash of white teeth. "Well, I shall certainly kill him—this time!"

"Is it th' Kid again?"

"No—oh, no, it's just for my own satisfaction—and pleasure."

"You ain't heeled, are ye? This ain't goin' t' be no gun-play—eh?"

"No, I haven't a gun, but I've brought his—neckerchief."

"Sufferin' Pete!" murmured the Spider in a strangely awed voice, and walked on in silence, chewing viciously.

"Bo," said he at last, "I'm thinkin' th' kindest thing I could do would be t' slip one over t' your point while you wasn't lookin', an' puttin' you t' sleep a bit—you want soothin'! Bud'll be too big fer you or any other guy t' tackle now; ye see, his stock's rose—th' Noo Jersey p'lice wasn't strong enough t' hold him—"

"That's where I'm different—I can!" said Ravenslee, opening and shutting his right hand convulsively. "Yes, I'll hold him till his last kick—and after!"

"My God!" exclaimed the Spider softly, and, beholding that clutching right hand, he edged away.

"Where you goin' t' look fer him?" he enquired after a while.

"O'Rourke's!"

"Why not try Raynor's first?" and he nodded to a saloon on the adjacent corner.

"Because I'm not a fool."

"Bo, I ain't s' sure o' that! O'Rourke's'll be full o' tough guys t'night; all th' bunch'll be there, an' if Bud tips 'em th' say-so, they'll snuff your light out quicker 'n winkin'."

"That wouldn't be such a hardship."

"Oh, so that's it, hey? You got a kiss-me-an'-let-me-die sort o' feelin', hey? Some nice bit o' stuff been turnin' ye down, bo?"

"That'll be about enough!" said Ravenslee, quick and fierce; and, meeting the flash of his eye, the Spider edged away again.

"Sufferin' Mike!" said he, "you sure ain't doin' the affable chat stunt t'night!"

But Ravenslee strode along in silence, and the Spider, heeding the pale, set ferocity of his expression, grew troubled.

"Say," said he at last, "this don't happen t' be th' night as you've fixed up t' smash th' gang, does it?"

"No—only M'Ginnis."

"S'posin' he ain't at O'Rourke's?"

"He'll be somewhere else."

"Bo, if I was your ma, I should be prayin' you don't find Bud, yes, sir! An' I should pray—dam' hard!"

By this time they had reached Eleventh Avenue and were close upon the saloon when Ravenslee halted suddenly, for, beneath a lamp on the opposite sidewalk, he saw M'Ginnis in talk with two other men.

Drawing the neckerchief from his pocket, Ravenslee crossed over and tapped M'Ginnis on the arm, who, turning about, stared into a pallid face within a foot of his own.

"What th' hell—" he began, but Ravenslee cut him short.

"You left this behind you," said he, thrusting forward the neckerchief, "so I've brought it to twist around that foul throat of yours. Now, M'Ginnis—fight!"

Thrusting the neckerchief into his pocket, Ravenslee clenched his fists, and, saying no more, they closed and fought—not as men, but rather as brute beasts eager to maim and rend.

M'Ginnis's companions, dumbfounded by the sudden ferocity of it all, stood awhile inactive, staring at those two forms that lurched and swayed, that strove and panted, grimly speechless. Then, closing in, they waited an opportunity to smite down M'Ginnis's foe from behind. But the Spider was watching, and, before either of them could kick or strike, his fists thudded home—twice—hard blows aimed with scientific precision; after which, having dragged the fallen away from those fierce-trampling feet, he stood, quivering and tense, to watch that desperate encounter.

Once Ravenslee staggered back from a vicious flush-hit, and once M'Ginnis spun around to fall upon hands and knees; then they clenched, and coming to the ground together, fought there, rolling to and fro and hideously twisted together. But slowly Ravenslee's clean living began to tell, and M'Ginnis, wriggling beneath a merciless grip, uttered inarticulate cries and groaned aloud. And now the deadly neckerchief was about his gasping throat and in his ears his conqueror's fierce laugh—lost all at once in a roar of voices, a rush of trampling feet.

Wrenched at by fierce hands, smitten by unseen fists, Ravenslee was beaten down—was dimly aware of the Spider's long legs bestriding him, and staggering up through a tempest of blows, hurled himself among his crowding assailants, felled one with his right, stopped another with his left, and, as the press broke to the mad fury of his onslaught, felt his hand wrenched from a man's windpipe and heard a frantic voice that panted:

"Leg it, bo, leg it. Hully Chee! ain't ye had enough?" So, mechanically, he set off at a run, with his arm still gripped by the Spider. "Leg it, bo—leg it good, or here's where we snuff it sure! This way—round th' corner; only keep goin', bo, keep goin'."

Very fleetly they ran with their pursuers close on their heels, across open lots, over fences, along tortuous alleys, until the rush and patter of the many feet died away, and the Spider, pulling up at the corner of a dismal, narrow street hard by the river, stood awhile to listen.

"Jiminy Christmas! but you're some hot stuff at the swattin' business—you're a glutton, you are, bo. I been in one or two scraps meself, but I never seen a guy so hungry for—"

"Where are we?"

"Thirteenth an' Twentieth."

"Are we safe?"

"F' th' time, I reckon. But all Hell's Kitchen'll be out after us t'night, sure. So I guess it's us for th' immediate hike—"

"Us? Will they be after you, too?"

"Well," said the Spider, smiling down grimly at his damaged, knuckles, "I guess yes! Hell's Kitchen an' Tenth Av'ner's got t' get along without me from now on, I reckon. They ain't losin' much, an' I ain't leavin' much, but—"

"Why the devil had you got to follow me to-night?" demanded Ravenslee, scowling.

"Bo," said the Spider as they went on again, "there's times when my likin' f'r you gets a pain; there's times when y'r talk gives me th' earache, an' y'r lovin' looks the willies. I ain't lookin' f'r no gratitood, nor yet a gold dinner-set an' loominated address, but, not ownin' a hide like a sole-leather Saratoga, I'll jest get on me way—S' long!"

"Where are you going?"

"I dunno, but—I'm goin' there, right now."

But as the Spider turned away, his hand was caught and gripped, and Ravenslee was smiling; his features looked a bit battered, but his smile was pleasant as ever.

"Forgive my cursed temper, Spider. I owe you my life again and—I ought to be grateful, I suppose. Forgive me, I'm—not quite myself to-night."

"Sure thing!" said the Spider, returning his grasp, "but, bo, I'm kind o' wonderin' in me little mind what Bud's feelin' like! You sure swatted him good an' heavy. I never seen cleaner footwork, an' them left jabs o' yours—"

"The question is, how do you feel, Spider, and what are you going to do?"

The pugilist scratched his rough chin. "Well, that's what gets my goat; I dunno quite, bo. Y' see, I shan't be able t' get no more fights here in the East now, not wi' Bud 'n' his old man against me—y' see, Bud's old man's about the biggest—"

"I wonder if you'd care to come with me?"

"Whaffor?"

"Well, for one thing, I need another chauffeur and—"

"A—what?" The Spider halted under a lamp-post to stare at Ravenslee a little anxiously. "Say, now, take a holt of ye'self an' jest put that one over th' plate again—you need a—what?"

"Another chauffeur."

"Another shuvver—another? Bo, y' didn't happen t' get a soak on th' bean just now, did ye?"

"No."

"Well, then, I guess you're some shook up; what you want's food, right now!"

"Why, yes, now you mention it, I'm devilish hungry," agreed Ravenslee.

"Leave it t' me, bo—I know a chewin'-joint close by—soup, joint, sweets, an' coffee an' only a quarter a throw—some feed, bo! Shin right along, I'll—"

"No, you shall come home and dine with me."

"Home?" repeated the Spider, halting to stare again; "you're sure talkin' ramblin'—"

"We can discuss the chauffeur's job then—"

"Shuvver?" said the Spider uneasily. "But what's a guy like you want with a shuvver?"

"Well, to drive my car—and—"

"Car?" said the Spider, his uneasiness growing, "got a car now, have ye, bo?"

"I rather think I've got six."

"Sufferin' Sam!" The Spider scratched his chin while his keen eyes roved over Ravenslee's exterior apprehensively. "Say, bo, you quite sure none o' th' bunch booted you on th' dome—eh?"

"Quite sure."

"An' yet you got six auter-mobiles. I say—you think so."

"Now I think again, they're seven with the newest racer."

"Say, now, jest holt still a minute! Now, swaller twice, think dam' hard, an' tell me again! You got how many?"

"Seven!"

"Got anythin' else?"

"Oh, yes, a few things."

"Tell us jest one."

"Well, a yacht."

"Oh, a yacht?"

"A yacht."

"'S 'nuff, bo, 's 'nuff! But go on—go on, get it all off if you'll feel better after. Anythin' more?"

"Why, yes, about twenty or thirty houses and castles and palaces and things—"

"That settles it sure!" sighed the Spider. "You're comin' t' see a doctor, that's what! Your dome's sure got bent in with a boot or somethin'."

"No, Spider, I just happen to be born the son of a millionaire, that's all."

"Think o' that, now!" nodded the Spider, "a millionaire now—how nice! An' what do they call ye at home?"

"Geoffrey Ravenslee."

"How much?" exclaimed the Spider, falling back a step. "The guy as went ten rounds with Dick Dunoon at th' 'National?' The guy as won th' Auter-mobile Race? Th' guy as bought up Mulligan's—you?"