O'ROURKE'S SALOON
He was in the act of lighting his pipe when the doors of the saloon were swung open, and three men came out, in one of whom he recognised the tall, powerful figure and broad shoulders of Bud M'Ginnis; his companions were remarkable, but in very opposite ways, the one being slender and youthful and very smartly dressed, with a face which, despite its seeming youth, was strangely haggard and of an unhealthy pallor, while the other was plethoric, red-faced and middle-aged, a man hoarse of voice and roughly clad, and Ravenslee noticed that this fellow lacked the upper half of one ear.
"Saturday night, mind!" said M'Ginnis, loud and authoritative.
"But say, Bud," demanded the smartly dressed youth, "what's coming to us on that last deal?"
"Nix—that's what you get, Soapy!" The youth's pale cheek grew livid.
"So you've got the deck stacked against us, eh, Bud?" said he.
"I got a close mouth, Soapy, I guess you don't want me t' open it very wide—now or any other old time. Saturday night, mind!" and nodding, M'Ginnis turned away. The youth looked after him with venomous eyes, and his right hand made a sinister movement toward his hip pocket.
"Aw—quit it; are ye crazy?" grunted his companion. "Bud's got us cinched."
"Got us—hell!" snarled the youth. "Bud's askin' for it, an' some day he's goin' t' get it—good!"
Toward afternoon, Ravenslee was trundling light-heartedly eastward, his barrow emptied to the last peanut. Having reached Fifth Avenue, he paused to mop his perspiring brow when a long, low automobile, powerfully engined, that was creeping along behind, pulled up with a sudden jerk, and its driver, whose immense shoulders were clad in a very smart livery, pushed up the peak of his smart cap to run his fingers through his close-cropped hair, while his mild blue eyes grew very wide and round.
"Crikey!" said he at last. "Is that you, sir, or ain't it?"
"How much?" demanded Ravenslee gruffly.
"Crumbs!" said the chauffeur. "Sir, if you—ain't you, all I say is—I ain't me!"
"Aw—what's bitin' ye, bo?" growled Ravenslee.
"Well, if this ain't the rummest go, I'm a perisher!"
"Say, now, crank up d' machine an' beat it while d' goin' 's good. How's that, Joe?"
"Lord, Mr. Ravenslee—so you are my guv'nor, and blow me tight—shoving a barrer! I knowed it was you, sir; leastways I knowed your legs an' the set o' them shoulders, but—with a barrer! Excuse me, sir, but the idea o' you pushing a perishing peanut barrer so gay an' 'appy-'earted—well, all I can say is love-a-duck!"
"Well now, cut along, Joe, and get ready. I mean to put in some real hard work with you this afternoon."
"Right-o, sir!" nodded Joe eagerly. "Lord, but we've missed you terrible—the Old Un an' me."
"Glad of it, Joe! Tell Patterson to have my bath ready when we've finished. Off with you—drive in the Fifth Avenue entrance."
Joe nodded, and the big car turned and crept silently away, while Ravenslee, trundling onward, turned off to the left and so into a very large, exceedingly neat garage where stood five or six automobiles of various patterns in one of which, a luxurious limousine, an old, old man snored blissfully. At the rumble of the barrow, however, this ancient being choked upon a snore, coughed, swore plaintively, and finally sat up. Perceiving Ravenslee, he blinked, rubbed his eyes, and stepping from the car very nimbly despite his years, faced the intruder with a ferocious scowl.
He was indeed a very ancient man, though very nattily dressed from spotless collar to shiny patent leather shoes, a small, dandified, bright-eyed man whose broken nose and battered features bore eloquent testimony to long and hard usage.
"'Ook it!" he croaked, with square bony jaw fiercely outthrust. "We don't want no peanuts 'ere, d'j 'ear? 'Op off, 'ook it before I break every blessed bone in yer bloomin' body!"
"What, Old Un, don't you know me, either?"
"Lumme!" exclaimed the little old man, blinking beneath hoary brows. "Ho, lor' lumme, it's 'im! Blimy, it's the Guv'nor—'ow do, Guv!" and shooting immaculate cuffs over bony wrists he extended a clawlike hand.
"How are you, Old Un?"
"Well, sir, what with the rheumatix an' a stiff j'int or two an' a touch o' lumbager, not to mention all my other ailments, I ain't quite s' spry as I was!"
"But you look very well!"
"That's where your heyes deceives you, Guv. A great sufferer I be, though patient under haffliction, ho, yus—except for a swear now an' then which do me a power o' good—yus! If I was to tell you all the woes as my poor old carkiss is hair to, you could write a book on 'em—a big 'un. I got everything the matter wi' me, I 'ave, from a thick ear an' broke nose as I took in Brummagem sixty an' five years ago to a hactive liver."
"A what?" enquired Ravenslee.
"A hactive liver. Lord, Guv, my liver gets that hactive lately as I can't set still—Joe knows, ax Joe! All as I ain't got o' human woes is toothache, not 'avin' no teeth to ache, y' see, an' them s' rotten as it 'ud make yer 'eart bleed. An' then I get took short o' breath—look at me now, dang it!"
"Why, then, sit down, Old Un," said Ravenslee, drawing up a somewhat worn armchair. "Joe and I are going at it hard and fast this afternoon, and I want you to time the rounds." And he proceeded to remove his garments.
"Oh, j'y!" cried the Old Un, hugging himself in bony arms. "Oh, j'yful words. Ah, but you peels like a good un, sir," he croaked, viewing white flesh and bulging muscle with knowing old eyes, "good an' long in the arm an' wide slope o' shoulder. You might ha' done well in the ring if you'd been blessed wi' poverty an' I'd 'ad the 'andling of ye—a world's unbeat champion, like Joe. A good fighter were I an' a wonnerful trainer! Ho, yus, I might ha' made a top-notcher of ye if you 'adn't been cursed wi' money."
"I suppose," said Ravenslee thoughtfully, "I suppose Joe was one of the best all-round fighting men that ever climbed into a ring?"
"Ah—that 'e were! Joe were better 'n the best—only don't let 'im 'ear me say so, 'e 'd be that puffed up—Lord! But nobody could beat Joe—black, yaller or white; they all tried danged 'ard, but Joe were a world-beater—y' see, I trained Joe! An' to-day 'e 's as good as ever 'e was. Y' see, Joe's allus lived clean, sir, consequent Joe's sound, wind an' limb. Joe could go back an' beat all these fancy bruisers and stringy young champs to-day—if 'e only would—but don't let 'im 'ear me say so."
"You're fond of Joe, Old Un?"
"An' why for not, sir—s' long as 'e don't know it? Didn't 'e look arter poor old me when 'e 'ad money, an' when 'e lost everything, didn't 'e look arter me still? An' now 'e 's your shuvver, don' 'e keep a roof over me poor old 'ead like a son—don't 'e give me the run o' jour garridge an' let me watch 'im spar wi' you an' your gentlemen friends? Ain't 'e the best an' truest-'earted man as ever drawed breath? Ah, a king o' men is Joe, in the ring an' out, sir—only never let 'im 'ear me say so—'e 'd be that proud, Lord! there'd be no livin' wi' 'im—sh, 'ere 'e be, sir."
Joe had laid by his chauffeur's garb and looked even bigger and grimmer in flannels and sweater.
"Ho you, Joe," cried the old man, scowling, "did ye bring me that 'bacca?"
"S'posin' I didn't?" demanded Joe.
"Then dang ye—twice!"
"An' s'posin' I did?"
"Then—give it 'ere!"
"An' that's his gratitood, sir!" growled Joe, shaking his head and giving the packet into the old man's clutching fingers. "A unnat'ral old bag-o'-bones, that's what 'e is, sir!"
"Bones!" croaked the Old Un viciously. "Bag-o'-bones am I? Yah—look at ye'self—pork, that's what you are, all run to pork an' blubber an' fat, Joe, me pore lad—"
"Fat!" growled Joe. "Y' know I ain't fat; y' know I'm as good a man as ever I was—look at that, you old sarpent!" And he smote himself with mighty fist—a blow to fell an ox. "Fat, am I?"
"As—lard!" nodded the old man, filling half an inch of blackened clay pipe with trembling fingers, "as a 'og—"
"Now my crumbs—" began Joe fiercely.
"You're flabby an' soft, me pore lad," grinned the old man. "Flabby as a babby an' soft as a woman an' fat as a—"
Joe reached out very suddenly, and picking up the old man, armchair and all, shook him to and fro until he croaked for mercy.
"Lor' gorramighty!" he panted, as Joe set him down again.
"Fat, am I?" demanded Joe, scowling.
"Fat as a 'og—fat as forty bloomin' 'ogs!" cried the old man vindictively. "An' what's more, your wind's all gone—you couldn't go five rounds wi' a good 'un!"
"Couldn't I?"
"No!" shrieked the Old Un, "you'd be 'anging on an' blowing like a grampus!"
"Should I?"
"Ah—like a grampus!"
"Right-o!" nodded Joe, turning away, "no jam for your tea to-night."
"Eh, what—what, would ye rob a pore old man of 'is jam, Joe—a pore afflicted old cove as is dependent on ye 'and an' fut, Joe—a pore old gaffer as you've just shook up to that degree as 'is pore old liver is a-bobbin' about in 'is innards like a jelly. Joe, ye couldn't be so 'eartless!"
"Ah, but I can!" nodded Joe. "An' if ye give me any more lip, it'll be no sugar in ye tea—"
"No sugar!" wailed the Old Un, then clenching a trembling old fist, he shook it in Joe's scowling face. "Then dang ye—three times!" he cried. "What's the old song say?
"An' there's for ye. Now listen again:
"An' there's for ye again!"
Saying which, the Old Un nodded ferociously and proceeded to light his fragmentary pipe. During this colloquy Ravenslee had laid by his shabby clothes and now appeared clad and shod for the ring.
"Sir," said Joe, taking a set of gloves from a locker, "if you are ready to box a round or so—"
"Why, no," answered Ravenslee, "I don't want to box to-day, Joe."
"Eh?" said Joe, staring, "not?"
"I want to fight, Joe."
"To—fight, sir?" repeated Joe.
"Fight?" cried the Old Un rapturously. "Oh, music—sweet music t' me old ears! Fight? Oh, j'yful words! What's the old song say?
"Get the mufflers on, Joe; get 'em on an' don't stand staring like a fool!"
"But, sir," said Joe, his mild eyes kindling, "d' ye mean as you want—the real thing?"
"To-day," said Ravenslee, "instead of boxing a round or two with Joe Madden, my chauffeur and mechanic, I want to see how long I can stand up to Joe Madden, undefeated champion of the world."
Joe's lean cheek flushed and he looked Ravenslee over with eyes of yearning; noted the thin flanks and slender legs that showed speed, the breadth of shoulder and long arms that spoke strength, and the deep, arched chest that showed endurance; Joe looked and sighed and shook his head.
"Sir," said he, "I honour and respect you to that degree as it would be a joy to fight such a man as you and a rare privilege t' knock you down—but, sir, if I was to knock ye down—"
"You'd earn a five-dollar bill."
"Five dollars—for knockin' you down, sir?"
"Every time!" nodded Ravenslee.
"But Lord, sir—"
"Shut up, Joe, shut up," snarled the Old Un, hopping out of the armchair. "Don't gape like a perishin' fish; come on up-stairs an' knock the Guv'nor down like 'e tells ye—an' 'arves on the money, mind; it was me as taught ye all you know or ever will, so 'arves on the money, Joe, 'arves on the money. Come on, Joe—d'j 'ear?"
"Crumbs!" said Joe.
"Look at 'im. Guv—look at 'im!" shrieked the old man, dancing to and fro in his impatience, "'ere's a chance for 'im to earn a pore old cove a bit o' 'bacca money, an', what's better still, t' show a pore old fightin' man a bit o' real sport—an' there 'e stands, staring like a perishing pork pig! Blimy, Guv, get behind an' 'elp me to shove 'im up-stairs."
"But, crikey, sir!" said Joe, "five dollars every time I—"
"Yus, yus, you bloomin' hadjective—two dollars fifty for each of us! 'Urry up, oh, 'urry up afore 'e changes 'is mind an' begins to 'edge."
So Joe follows his "Guv'nor" and the Old Un up a flight of stairs and into a large chamber fitted as a gymnasium, where are four roped and padded posts socketed into the floor; close by is a high-backed armchair in which the Old Un seats himself with an air of heavy portent.
But when Joe would have ducked under the ropes, the Old Un stayed him with an imperious gesture, and, clambering into the ring, advanced to the centre and bowed gravely as if to a countless multitude.
"Gentlemen," he piped in his shrill old voice, "I take pleasure to introduce Joe Madden, undefeated 'eavyweight champion o' the world, an' the Guv—both members of this club an' both trained by me, Jack Bowser, once lightweight champion of England an' hall the Americas. Gentlemen, it will be a fight to a finish—Markis o' Queensberry rules. Gentlemen—I thank ye." Having said which, the Old Un bowed again, gravely stepped from the ring, and ensconcing himself in the armchair, drew out a large and highly ornate watch, while Ravenslee and Joe vaulted over the ropes.
Behold them facing each other, the brown-skinned fighting man wise in ringcraft and champion of a hundred fights, and the white-fleshed athlete, each alike clean and bright of eye, light-poised of foot, quivering for swift action, while the Old Un looks needfully from one to the other, watch in one bony hand, the other upraised.
"Get ready!" he croaked. "Go!"
Comes immediately a quick, light tread of rubber-soled feet and the flash of white arms as they circle about and about, feinting, watchful and wary. Twice Ravenslee's fist shoots out and twice is blocked by Joe's open glove, and once he ducks a vicious swing and lands a half-arm jolt that makes Joe grin and stagger, whereat the Old Un, standing upon his chair, hugs himself in an ecstasy, and forgetful of such small matters as five-dollar bills, urges, prays, beseeches, and implores the Guv to "wallop the blighter on the p'int, to stab 'im on the mark, and to jolt 'im in the kidney-pit."
"Go it, Guv!" he shrieked, "go it! In an' out again, that's it—Gorramighty, I never see sich speed. Oh, keep at 'im, Guv—make 'im cover up—sock it into 'im, Guv! Ho, lumme, what footwork—you're as quick as lightweights—oh, 'appy, 'appy day! Go to it, both on ye!"
And "to it" they went, with jabs and jolts, hooks and swings, with cunning feints and lightning counters until the place echoed and reechoed to the swift tramp of feet and dull thudding of blows, while the Old Un, hugging himself in long, bony arms, chuckled and choked and rocked himself to and fro in an ecstasy; moreover, when Joe, uttering a grunt, reeled back against the ropes, the Old Un must needs shriek and dance and crow with delight until, bethinking him of his duty, he checked his excitement, seated himself in the armchair again, and announced: "Time! End o' round one."
And it is to be noticed that as they sit down to take their two minutes' rest, neither Ravenslee nor Joe, for all their exertions, seem unduly distressed in their breathing.
"Sir," says Joe, looking his pupil over, "you're uncommon quick on your pins; never knowed a quicker—did you, Old Un?"
"No, me lad—never in all me days!"
"An' you've sure-ly got a punch, sir. Ain't 'e, Old Un?"
"Like a perishin' triphammer!" nodded the Old Un. "Likewise, sir, you've a wonderful judgment o' distance—but, sir, you need experience!"
"That's what I'm after, Joe."
"And you take too many chances; you ain't larned caution yet."
"That you must teach me, Joe."
"Which I surely will, sir. In the next round, subject to no objection, I propose to knock ye down, sir."
"Which means two dollars fifty for each on us, Joe—mind that," added the Old Un.
"So fight more cautious, sir, do," pleaded Joe, "and—look out."
"Time!" croaked the Old Un. "Round two! And Guv, look out for yer p'int, cover yer mark, an' keep a heye on yer kidney-pit!"
Once again they faced each other, but this time it was Joe who circled quick and catlike, massive shoulders bowed, knees bent, craggy chin grim and firm-set, but blue eyes serene and mild as ever. A moment's silent sparring, a quick tread of feet, and Joe feints Ravenslee into an opening, swings for his chin, misses by an inch, and ducking a vicious counter, drives home a smashing body-blow and, staggering weakly, Ravenslee goes down full length.
"Shook ye up a bit, sir?" enquired Joe, running up with hands outstretched, "take a rest, now do, sir."
"No, no," answered Ravenslee, springing to his feet, "the Old Un hasn't called 'Time' yet."
"Not me!" piped the old man, "not bloomin' likely! Go to it, both on ye—mind, that's two-fifty for me, Joe!"
What need is there to tell the numerous feints, the lightning shifts, the different tricks of in-fighting and all the cunning strategy and ringcraft that Joe brought to bear and carefully explained between rounds? Suffice it that at the end of a certain fierce "mix up", as Ravenslee sat outstretched and panting, the white flesh of arms and broad chest discovered many livid marks and patches that told their tale; also one elbow was grazed and bleeding, and one knee showed signs of contact with the floor.
"Joe," said he, when his wind was somewhat recovered, "that makes it thirty dollars I owe you, I think?"
"Why, sir," said Joe, who also showed some slight signs of wear, but whose breathing was soft and regular, "why, sir, you couldn't call that last one a real knockdown—"
"You 'm a liar, Joe, a liar!" cried the Old Un. "Blimy, Guv, Joe's a-tellin' you crackers, s' help me—your 'ands touched the floor, didn't they?"
"And my knees, too," nodded Ravenslee, "also my elbow—no, that was last time or the time before."
"Well, then, tell this lying Joe-lad o' mine as 'e surely did knock ye down. Lord, Joe!" cried the Old Un, waxing pathetic, "'ow can ye go takin' money from a pore old cove like I be. Joe, I blushes for ye—an'—Time, Time there, both on ye!"
"But we don't want any more, do we, sir?" enquired Joe.
"Why, yes, I think I can go another round or so."
"There y' are, Joe, the Guv's surely a game cove. So get at it, me lad, an' try an' knock it up to fifty dollars—'arves, Joe, mind!"
"But, sir," began Joe, eyeing the livid blotches on Ravenslee's white skin, "don't ye think—"
"Time—oh, Time, Time!" shrieked the Old Un. Whereupon Ravenslee sprang to the centre of the ring, and once again the air resounded with tramp of feet and pant of breath. Twice Ravenslee staggers beneath Joe's mighty left, but watchful ever and having learned much, Ravenslee keeps away, biding his time—ducks a swing, sidesteps a drive, and blocking a vicious hook—smacks home his long left to Joe's ribs, rocks him with a swinging uppercut, drives in a lightning left and right, and Joe goes down with a crash.
Even while the Old Un stared in wide-eyed, gaping amaze, Joe was on his feet again, serene and calm as ever, only his great chest laboured somewhat, but Ravenslee shook his head.
"I guess that'll be about enough, Joe," said he.
"Guv," cried the Old Un, seizing Ravenslee's right hand, boxing glove and all, and shaking it to and fro, "you're a credit to us, you do us bloomin' proud—strike me pink, ye do! 'Ere 's Joe 'ammered you an' 'ammered you—look at your bloomin' chest—lumme! 'Ere 's Joe been knockin' ye down an' knockin' ye down, an' you comin' up smilin' for more an' gettin' it—'ere's Joe been a-poundin' of ye all over the ring, yet you can finish strong an' speedy enough to put Joe down—blimy, Guv, you're a wonder an' no error!"
"I don't think Joe fought his hardest, Old Un."
"If 'e didn't," cried the old man, "I'll punch 'im on the nose so 'e won't never smell nothink no more."
"Sir," said Joe, "in the first round p'raps I did go a bit easylike, but arter that I came at you as 'ard an' 'eavy as I could. I 'it you where an' 'ow I could, barrin' your face."
"I hope I shall soon be good enough for you to go for my face as well, Joe."
"But, sir—if I give you a black eye—"
"How will—say, ten dollars do?"
"Ten dollars! For blacking your eye, sir?"
"Lumme, Joe!" cried the Old Un, "get back into the ring and black 'em both—"
"Shut up!" said Joe, scowling down into the Old Un's eager face, "you 'eartless old bloodsucker, you!"
"Bloodsucker!" screamed the old man, "w'ot, me? I'll punch you on the ear-'ole, Joe, so's you never 'ear nothin' no more."
"Are you on, Joe?" asked Ravenslee, while the Old Un, swearing softly, unlaced his gloves.
"But, crumbs, sir—axin' your pardon, things'll come a bit expensive, won't they? Y' see—"
"So much the better, ye blighted perisher!" snarled the Old Un, "an' don't forget as the Guv owes you thirty dollars a'ready—an' 'arves, mind."
"Stow it, you old bag o' wickedness—"
"Bag o'—" the Old Un let fall the boxing gloves and turning on Joe, reached up and shook a feeble old fist under the champion's massive chin. "Look at this, me lad—look at this!" he croaked. "Some day I shall ketch you sich a perishin' punch as'll double ye up till kingdom come, me lad, and—Lord, the Guv's countin' out our money—"
"Thirty of 'em, Joe," said Ravenslee, holding out a wad of bills.
"Why, sir," said Joe, backing away, "axing yer pardon, but I'd rayther not—you give me such uncommon good wages, sir, and a bonus every race we run, win or lose—so, sir, I—I'd rayther not—"
"Not?" cried the Old Un, "not take money as is 'arf mine—Oh, kick 'im, somebody—kick 'im! Pound 'im for a pigeon-'earted perishin' pork pig—"
"That'll be no sugar in your tea t'night, old viciousness! But, sir, I'd rayther not—"
"Don't 'eed 'im, Guv—don't 'eed the flappin' flounder. If 'e wont obleege ye in a little matter like thirty dollars, I will—I'll always obleege you—"
"That's enough from you, old tombstones."
"Tombstones!" hissed the Old Un, scowling darkly and squaring his trembling fists, "all right, me lad, 'ere 's where I ketch ye one as'll flatten ye out till the day o' doom—"
Hereupon Joe caught him above the elbows, and lifting him in mighty hands that yet were gentle, seated the snarling old fellow in the armchair.
"Old Un," said he, shaking his finger, "if ye give me any more of it—off t' bed I take ye without any tea at all!" The Old Un, cowering beneath that portentous finger, swore plaintively and promptly subsided.
"And now," said Ravenslee, thrusting the money into Joe's reluctant hand, "when I make a bargain, I generally keep it. I wish all my money had been spent to such good purpose."
"What about me?" whined the old man humbly, "don't I get none, Joe-lad?"
"Not a cent, you old rasper!"
"Blimy, Guv, you won't forget a old cove as 'ud shed 'is best blood for ye?"
"The Guv'nor don't want yer blood, old skin-and-bones. And now, come on, sir—"
"Stay a minute, Joe, the Old Un generally keeps time for us when we spar rounds."
"That I do, Guv," cried the old man, "an' give ye advice worth its weight in solid gold; you owe me a lot, s' 'elp me."
"About how much?"
"Well, Guv, I ain't got me ledger-book 'andy, but roughly speakin' I should say about five or six 'undred dollars. But seein' you 's you an' I'm me—a old man true-'earted as never crossed nobody—let's say—fifteen dollars."
"Why, you old—thievin'—vagabone!" gasped Joe, as Ravenslee gravely handed over the money.
"Vagabone yourself!" said the Old Un, counting the bills over in trembling fingers. "The Guv wants a bath—take 'im away—'ook it, d'j 'ear?"
"Has Patterson got everything ready, Joe?" enquired Ravenslee, taking up his clothes.
"No, sir," mumbled Joe, "but I'll have ye bath ready in a jiffy, sir."
"But where's Patterson?"
"Well, 'e—'e 's out, sir."
"And the footmen?"
"They're out, sir."
"Oh! And the housekeeper—er—what's her name—Mrs. Smythe?"
"Gone to call on her relations, sir."
"Ah! And the maids?"
"Mrs. Smythe give 'em leave of habsence, sir. Y' see, sir," said Joe apologetically, "you're 'ere so seldom, sir."
"My servants are not exactly—er—worked to death, Joe?"
"No, sir."
"Manage to look after themselves quite well?"
"Yes, sir."
"It seems I need some one to look after them—and me."
"Yes, sir."
"A woman, Joe—one I can trust and honour and—what d' ye think?"
"I think—er—yes, sir."
"Well—what do you suggest?"
"Marry her, sir."
"Joe, that's a great idea! Shake hands! I surely will marry her—at once—if she'll have me."
"She'll have you, sir."
"Do you really think she will, Joe?"
"I'm dead certain, sir."
"Joe, shake again. I'll speak to her when she comes home. To-morrow's Saturday, isn't it?"
"As ever was, sir."
"Then, Joe—wish me luck; I'll ask her—to-morrow!"
It was Saturday morning, and Hermione was making a pie and looking uncommonly handsome about it and altogether feminine and adorable; at least, so Ravenslee thought, as he watched her bending above the pastry board, her round, white arms bared to each dimpled elbow, and the rebellious curl wantoning at her temple as usual.
"But why kidneys, my dear?" demanded Mrs. Trapes, glancing up from the potatoes she was peeling. "Kidneys is rose again; kidneys is always risin', it seems to me. If you must have pie, why not good, plain beefsteak? It's jest as fillin' an' cheaper, my dear—so why an' wherefore kidneys?"
"Arthur likes them, and he'll be hungry when he comes in—"
"Hungry," snorted Mrs. Trapes, "that b'y's been hungry ever since he drawed the breath o' life. How's he gettin' on with his new job?"
"Oh, splendidly!" cried Hermione, flushing with sisterly pride, "they've promised him a raise next month."
"What, already?" exclaimed Mrs. Trapes, cutting viciously into a potato. "If he don't watch out, they'll be makin' him a partner next."
"Oh, Ann, I wish you were not quite so—so hard on him!" sighed Hermione. "Remember, he's only a boy!"
"You were a woman at his age, earning enough t' keep ye both—but there! I don't mean t' be hard, Hermy; anyway, a man's never much good till he's growed up, and then only because some woman teaches him how t' be."
"What do you say to that, Mr. Geoffrey?" enquired Hermione, pausing, flour-dredger in hand, to glance at him slily under her brows.
"I think Mrs. Trapes is a wonderful woman," he answered.
"Ah, now, Mr. Geoffrey, quit y'r jollying," said Mrs. Trapes, smiling at the potato.
"Mrs. Trapes has taught me much wisdom already and, among other things, that I shall never be or do anything worth the while without the aid of a woman—"
"Lord, Mr. Geoffrey, I never remember sayin' no sich thing!"
"Not in so many words, perhaps, but you implied it, Mrs. Trapes."
"H'm!" said Mrs. Trapes dubiously.
"Consequently, I mean to ask that woman—on the very first opportunity, Miss Hermione." Seeing that Hermione was silent, all her attention being centred in the dough her white fists were kneading, Mrs. Trapes spoke instead.
"D' ye mean as you want some one t' look after you—to sew an' cook an' wash an' sew buttons on for ye—I know the sort!"
"I certainly do, and—"
"Ah, it's a slave you want, Mr. Geoffrey, and peanut men don't have slaves—not unless they marries 'em, and a woman as would marry a peanut man has only herself t' blame—peanuts!"
Hermione laughed, reached for the rolling-pin, and immediately fell to work with it, her head stooped rather lower than was necessary. As for Ravenslee, he lounged in his chair, watching the play of those round, white arms.
"But why the kidneys, Hermy? You've got to cut out luxuries now, my dear—we all have, I guess; it'll be dry bread next, I reckon."
"Why so?" enquired Ravenslee lazily.
"Why?" cried Mrs. Trapes bitterly, "I'll tell you why—because me an' Hermy an' every one else is bein' squeezed dry t' fill the pockets of a thing as calls itself a man—a thievin' beast on two legs as is suckin' our blood, gnawin' our flesh, grindin' the life out of us—a great fat man as is treadin' us down under his great boots, down an' down to slavery—death—an' worse—it's such men as him as keeps the flames of hell goin'—fat frizzles well, an' so will Mulligan, I hope!"
"Mulligan?" enquired Ravenslee.
"He's raised the rents on us, Mr. Geoffrey," sighed Hermione.
"Raised the rents?" said Ravenslee, forgetting to lounge.
"Sure!" nodded Mrs. Trapes grimly. "I guess he thinks we live too easy an' luxoorious, so he's boosted it up a dollar per. A dollar a week don't sound a whole lot, p'raps, but it sure takes some gettin'; folks expects a deal o' scrubbin' an' sewin' an' slavin' for a dollar—yes, sir."
"We shall have to work a little harder, that's all, Ann dear."
"Harder? I guess you work hard enough for two—an' who gets the benefit? Why, Mulligan does. Oh, it's a great comfort t' remember the flames of hell, sometimes. Lord, when I think how we have t' slave t' make enough t' live—"
"There are others worse than us, Ann."
"Why, yes, there's poor Mrs. Finlay; she's got to go, an' her husband paralysed! There's little Mrs. Bowker sewed herself pretty well blind t' keep her home together—she's got to go. There's Mrs. Sims with all those children, and the—but there, who cares for the likes o' them—who cares, eh, Mr. Geoffrey? An' what might you be dreamin' over this time?" she enquired, eyeing Ravenslee's long figure a little contemptuously, for he had fallen to lounging again, sleepy eyes half closed.
"I was thinking what a lot of interest we might find in this busy world—if we only would take the trouble to look for it!" he answered. "The fool who complains that his life is empty is blind and deaf and—damnably thick—er—pardon me, I—er nearly got excited."
"Excited?" snorted Mrs. Trapes, "I'd pay good money t' see you like that!"
"You see, I had an idea—a rather original idea!"
"Then take care of it, Mr. Geoffrey; nurse it careful, and we'll have ye doin' bigger things than push a peanut barrer—peanuts!"
"Mrs. Trapes, I've got a stranglehold on that idea, for it is rather brilliant."
"There's that kettle b'ilin' at last, thank goodness!" sighed Mrs. Trapes, crossing to the stove, "tea's a luxury, I suppose, but—oh, drat Mulligan, anyway!"
So Mrs. Trapes brewed the tea, while Ravenslee gazed at Hermione again, at her shapely arms, her dimpled elbows, her preoccupied face—a face so serenely, so utterly unaware of his regard, of course, until he chanced to look away, and then—Hermione stole a glance at him.
"There, my dear," said Mrs. Trapes after a while, "there's a cup o' tea as is a cup o' tea, brewed jest on the b'ile, in a hot pot, and drawed to perfection! Set right down an' drink it, slow an' deliberate. Tea ain't meant to be swallowed down careless, like a man does his beer! An' why?" demanded Mrs. Trapes, as they sipped the fragrant beverage, all three, "why ain't you out with your precious—peanuts, Mr. Geoffrey?"
Ravenslee set down his cup and turned to Hermione.
"Mrs. Trapes has told you, I think, that I am become—er—an itinerant vendor of the ubiquitous peanut—"
"Mr. Geoffrey!" gasped Mrs. Trapes, gulping a mouthful of hot tea and blinking, "I never did! Never in all my days would I allow myself such expressions—Mr. Geoffrey, I'm ashamed at you! An' that reminds me—it was chicken fricassee, wasn't it? For your supper, I mean?"
"I believe it was."
"Then," said Mrs. Trapes, rising, "I'll go an' buy it. Was you wantin' anything fetched, Hermy?"
"If you wouldn't mind bringing a bunch of asparagus—"
"Sparrergrass!" exclaimed Mrs. Trapes in horror-struck tones, "why, it's anywhere from thirty to sixty cents—"
"But Arthur loves it, dear, and now that he's working so hard—"
"Arthur likes!" cried Mrs. Trapes indignantly. "Mr. Geoffrey, it's been Arthur ever since he was born, an' her scrinchin' an' pinchin' herself for the sake o' that b'y. O' course he likes sparrergrass—so do I—but I make shift with pertatoes or cabbidge or carrots—an' so should he. Come now, Hermy, you take a bunch o' carrots instead; carrots is healthy an' cheap! Come now, is that sparrergrass to be carrots or not?"
"Ann, that asparagus is to be—asparagus!"
"Such wicked extravagance, an' all for that b'y. Hermy, I'm surprised at ye!"
For a long moment after Mrs. Trapes had departed there was silence, while Ravenslee sat gazing where Hermione stood busy at her pastry again.
"Mr. Geoffrey," said she at last, "I want to thank you for watching over my boy. Arthur told me how good you were to him while I was away. I want you to know how grateful I am—"
"What beautiful hands you have, Hermione—and I shall dream of your arms."
"My arms?" she repeated, staring.
"They're so—smooth and white—"
"Oh, that's flour!" said she, bending over the table.
"And so—round—"
"Oh, Mr. Geoffrey! Can't you find something else to talk about?"
"Why, of course," he answered, "there are your feet, so slender and shapely—"
"In these frightful old shoes!" she added.
"Worn out mostly in other peoples' service," he nodded. "God bless them!"
"They let the wet in horribly when it rains!" she sighed.
"So heaven send us dry weather! Then there is your wonderful hair," he continued, "so long and soft and—"
"And all bunched up anyhow!" said she, touching the heavy, shining braids with tentative fingers. "Please don't say any more, Mr. Geoffrey, because I just know I look a sight—I feel it! And in this old gown too—it's the one I keep to scrub the floors in—"
"Scrub the floors?" he repeated.
"Why, of course, floors must be scrubbed, and I've had plenty—oh, plenty of experience—now what are you thinking?"
"That a great many women might envy you that gown for the beauty that goes with it. You are very beautiful, you know, Hermione."
"And beauty in a woman is—everything, isn't it?" she said a little bitterly and with head suddenly averted.
"Have I offended you?"
"No," she answered without looking around, "only sometimes you are so very—personal."
"Because the First and Second Persons Singular Number are the most interesting persons in the world, and—Hermione, in all this big world there is only one person I want. Could you ever learn to love a peanut man?"
"That would all depend—on the peanut man," she answered softly, "and you—you don't talk or act a little bit like a real peanut man."
"Well, could you stoop to love this peanut man just as he is, with all his faults and failures, love him enough to trust yourself to his keeping, to follow him into the unknown, to help him find that Beautiful City of Perhaps—could you, Hermione?" As he ended he rose to his feet, but swiftly, dexterously, she eluded him.
"Wait!" she pleaded, facing him across the table, "I—I want to talk to you—to ask you some questions, and I want you to be serious, please."
"Solemn as sixty judges!" he nodded.
"Well, first, Mr. Geoffrey—why do you pretend to sell peanuts?"
"Pretend!" he repeated, trying to sound aggrieved.
"Oh, I'm not blind, Mr. Geoffrey."
"No, indeed—I think your eyes are the most beau—"
"Oh, please, please be serious!"
"As a dozen owls!"
"I—I know," she went on quickly, "I'm sure you haven't always had to live in such—such places as Mulligan's. I know you don't belong here as I do. Is it necessity has driven you to live here or only—curiosity?"
"Well—er—perhaps a little of both," he admitted.
"Then you're not obliged to sell peanuts for a living?"
"'Obliged' is scarcely the word, perhaps; let us call it a peanut penchant, a hobby, a—"
"You are not quite so—poverty-stricken as you pretend?" Her voice was very soft and gentle, but she kept her head averted, also her foot was tapping nervously in its worn shoe.
"Oh, as to money," he answered, "I have enough for my simple needs, but in every other sense I am a miserable pauper. You see, there are some things no money can buy, and they are generally the best things of life."
"And so," said she, interrupting him gently, "you come here to Mulligan's, you deceive every one into thinking you are very poor, you make a pretence of selling peanuts and push a barrow through the streets—why?"
"First, because pushing a barrow is—er—very healthy exercise."
"Yes, Mr. Geoffrey?" she said in the same soft voice.
"And second," he continued, wishing he could see her face, "second, because I find it—er, well—highly amusing."
"Amusing!" she cried, turning suddenly, her eyes very bright and her cheeks hot and anger-flushed. "Amusing!" she repeated, "ah, yes—that's just it—it's all only a joke to you, to be done with when it grows tiresome. But my life here—our life is very real—ah, terribly real, and has been—sordid sometimes. What is only sport to you for a little while is deadly earnest to me; you are only playing at poverty, but I must live it—"
"And thirdly," he continued gently, "because I love you, Hermione!"
"Love me!" she repeated, shaking her head. "Ah, no, no—your world is not my world nor ever could be."
"Why, then, your world shall be mine."
"Yes, but for how long?" she demanded feverishly. "I wonder how long you could endure this world of mine? I have had to work and slave all my life, but you—look at your hands, so white and well-cared for—yours are not the hands of a worker!"
"No, I'm afraid they're not!" he admitted a little ruefully.
"Now look at mine—see my fingers all roughened by my needle."
"Such busy, capable hands!" said he, drawing a pace nearer, "hands always working for others, so strong to help the distressed. I love and honour them more just because of those work-roughened fingers." As he spoke he reached out very suddenly, and clasping those slender hands, stooped and kissed them reverently. Now, glancing up, he beheld her red lips quivering while her eyes were suffused all at once, as, drooping her head, she strove to loose his hold.
"Let me go!" she whispered, "I—I—ah, let me go!"
"Hermione," he breathed, "oh, Hermione, how beautiful you are!" But at this she cried out almost as if he had struck her and, wrenching her hands free, covered her face.
"Oh, God!—are all men the same?"
"Hermione," he stammered, "Hermione—what do you mean?"
"I mean," she answered, proud head up-flung, "there were always plenty of men to tell me that—when I was an office scrubwoman. Well?" she demanded fiercely, stung by something in his look, "what did you think I'd been? When a girl is left alone with a baby brother to care for, she can't wait and pick and choose work that is nice and ladylike; she must take what comes along or starve—so I worked. I used to scrub floors and stairs in an office building. I was very young then, and Arthur hardly more than a baby, and it was either that or starvation or—" she flushed painfully, but her blue eyes met his regard unflinchingly; "anyway, I—preferred to be a scrubwoman. So now you know what I mean by your world not being my world, and I—I guess you see how—how impossible it all is."
For a long moment was a silence wherein she stood turned from him, her trembling fingers busily folding and refolding a pleat in her apron while he stared down blindly at the floor.
"So you preferred the slavery of scrubbing floors, did you, Hermione?" he said at last.
"Of course!" she answered, without turning or lifting her heavy head.
"And that," said he, his voice as placid, as serenely unhurried as usual, "and that is; just why all things are going to be possible to us—yes, even turning my wasted years to profit. Oh, my Hermione, help me to be worthy of you—teach me what a glorious thing life may be—"
"I?" she said wonderingly, her drooping head still averted, "but I am—"
"Just the one woman I want to be my own for ever and always, more—far more than I have ever wanted anything in my life."
"But," she whispered, "I am only—"
"The best, the noblest I have ever known."
"But a—scrubwoman!"
"With dimples in her elbows, Hermione!" In one stride he was beside her, and she, because of his light tone, must turn at last to glance up at him half-fearfully; but those grey eyes were grave and reverent, the hands stretched out to her were strangely unsteady, and when he spoke again, his voice was placid no longer.
"Dear," he said, leaning toward her, "from the very first I've been dying to have you in my arms, but now I—I dare not touch you unless you—will it so. Ah, don't—don't turn from me; let me have my answer—look up, Hermione!"
Slowly she obeyed, and beholding the shy languor of her eyes, the sweet hurry of her breathing, and all the sighing, trembling loveliness of her, he set his arms about her, drawing her close; and she, yielding to those compelling arms, gave herself to the passion of his embrace. And so he kissed her, her warm, soft-quivering mouth, her eyes, her silken hair, until she sighed and struggled in his clasp.
"My hair," she whispered, "see—it's all coming down!"
"Well, let it—I'd love to see it so, Hermione."
"Should you? Why then—let me go," she pleaded.
Reluctantly he loosed her, and standing well beyond his reach, she shook her shapely head, and down, down fell the heavy coils, past shoulder and waist and hip, rippling in shining splendour to her knees. Then, while he gazed spellbound by her loveliness she laughed a little unsteadily, and flushing beneath his look, turned and fled from him to the door; when he would have followed she stayed him.
"Please," she said, tender-voiced, "I want to be alone—it is all so wonderful, I want to be alone and—think."
"I may see you again to-night, Hermione? Dear—I must."
"Why, if you must," she said, "how can I—prevent you?"
Then, all at once, her cool, soft arms were about his neck, had drawn him down to meet her kiss, and—he was alone with the pastry board, the rolling-pin and the flour-dredger—but he saw them all through a golden glory, and when he somehow found himself out upon the dingy landing, the glory was all about him still.
The morning sun blazed down, and Tenth Avenue was full of noise and dust and heat; children screamed and played and fought together, carts rumbled past, distant street cars clanged their bells, the sidewalks were full of the stir and bustle of Saturday; but Ravenslee went his way heedless of all this, even of the heat, for before his eyes was the vision of a maid's shy loveliness, and he thrilled anew at the memory of two warm lips. Thus he strode unheeding through the jostling throng at a speed very different from his ordinary lounging gait. Very soon he came to a small drug-store, weather-beaten and grimy of exterior but very bright within, where everything seemed in a perpetual state of glitter, from the multitudinous array of bottles and glassware upon the shelves to the taps and knobs of the soda fountain. Yet nowhere was there anything quite so bright as the shrewd, twinkling eyes of the little grey-haired man who greeted Ravenslee with a cheery nod.
"Hot enough?" he enquired.
"Quite!" answered Ravenslee.
"Goin' to be hotter."
"Afraid so."
"Rough on th' kiddies, an' ice goin' up. Which reminds me I sent on the mixture you ordered for little Hazel Bowker."
"Good," nodded Ravenslee.
"And the pills to Mrs. Sims."
"Good again."
"An' the sleeping-draught for old Martin Finlay."
"Good once more."
"Won't last long, old Martin, I guess. Never been the same since little Maggie drowned herself, poor child. What d'ye want this morning?"
"First to pay for the medicine," said Ravenslee, laying a five-dollar bill on the counter, "and then the use of your 'phone."
"Right there," said the chemist, nodding toward a certain shady corner, where, remote from all intruding bustle, was a telephone booth into which Ravenslee stepped forthwith and where ensued the following one-sided conversation:
Ravenslee. "Hello!"
Telephone. "Buzz!"
Ravenslee. "Hello, Central, give me Thirty-three Wall, please."
Telephone. "Ting-a-ling—buzz!"
Ravenslee. "Damn this 'phone—what? No, I said Double-three Wall."
Telephone. "Buzz! Ting! Zut!"
Ravenslee. "Sounded different, did it? Well, I want—"
Telephone. "Buzz! Zut! Ting!"
Ravenslee. "Thanks. Hello, that Thirty-three Wall? Dana and Anderson's Office? Good! I want to speak with Mr. Anderson—say Mr. Ravenslee."
Telephone. "Zing!"
Ravenslee. "Thanks. That you, Anderson?"
Telephone. "Pang!"
Ravenslee. "Thanks—very well! What the devil's wrong with this instrument of torment—can you hear me?"
Telephone. "Crack!"
Ravenslee. "Good! Yes—that's better! Now listen; I want you to do some business for me. No, I'm buying, not selling. I'm going into real estate. What, a bad speculation? Well, anyway, I'm buying tenement property in Tenth Avenue, known as Mulligan's, I believe. Oh, you've heard of it, eh? Not in the market? Not for sale? Well, I'll buy it. Oh, yes, you can—what d' you suppose is his figure? So much? Phew! Oh, well, double it. No, I'm not mad, Anderson. No, nor drunk—I just happen to want Mulligan's—and I'll have it. When can you put the deal through? Oh, nonsense, make him sell at once—get him on the 'phone. Oh, yes, he will, if you offer enough—Mulligan would sell his mother—at his own price. You quite understand—at once, mind! All right, good-by. No, I'm not mad—nor drunk, man; I haven't tasted a cocktail for a month. Eh—go and get one? I will!"
So saying, Ravenslee hung up the receiver and hastened out of the stifling heat of the suffocating booth, mopping perspiring brow.
"You look kinder warm!" ventured the chemist.
"I feel it."
"And it's going to be warmer. Try an ice-cream soda—healthy and invigorating."
"And better than any cocktail on such a day!"
"I guess! Take one?"
"Thank you, yes."
So the bright-eyed chemist mixed the beverage and handed it over the counter.
"Chin-chin!" he nodded.
"Twice," said Ravenslee, lifting the long glass. "To the Beautiful City of Perhaps!" and he drank deep.
"Say," said the chemist, staring, "that sounds t' me like a touch of the sun. Try a bottle of my summer mixture, good for sunstroke, heat-bumps, colic, spasms, and Hell's Kitchen generally—try a bottle?"
"Thanks," said Ravenslee, "I will." And grimly pocketing the bottled panacea, he stepped out into the hot and noisy avenue.
Spike was on his way from the office, very conscious of his new straw hat and immaculate collar; his erstwhile shabby suit had been cleaned and pressed by Hermione's skilled and loving fingers, hence Spike turned now and then as he passed some shop window to observe the general effect with furtive eye; and stimulated by his unwontedly smart appearance, he whistled joyously as he betook himself homeward. Moreover in his breast pocket was his pay envelope, not very bulky to be sure, wherein lay his first week's wages, and as often as he turned to glance at the tilt of the straw hat or heed the set of his tie, his hand must needs steal to this envelope to make sure of its safety. His fingers were so employed when he chanced to espy a certain article exposed for sale in an adjacent shop window; whereupon, envelope in hand, he incontinent entered and addressed the plump Semitic merchant in his usual easy manner.
"Greetings, Abe! I'll take one o' them hair-combs."
"Hair-gombs?" nodded the merchant. "Vot kind?"
"What kind? Why, the best you got."
"Ve got 'em up to veefty dollars—"
"Come off it, Cain, come off—I ain't purchasin' a diamond aigrette to-day, it's a lady's hair-comb I want—good, but not too flossy-lookin'—savvy that? This'll do, I guess—how much? Right there!" said Spike, flicking a bill upon the counter. "That's it, stick it in a box—oh, never mind th' wrappin's. S'long, Daniel!"
With his purchase in his pocket, Spike strode out of the shop, whistling cheerily, but the merry notes ended very suddenly as he dodged back again, yet not quite quick enough, for a rough voice hailed him, hoarse and jovial.
"Why, hello, Kid, how goes it?" M'Ginnis's heavy hand descended on his shrinking shoulder and next moment he was out on the sidewalk where Soapy lounged, a smouldering cigarette pendent from his thin, pallid lips as usual. And Soapy's eyes, so bright between their narrowed, puffy lids, so old-seeming in the youthful oval of his pale face, were like his cigarette, in that they smouldered also.
"Holy smoke!" exclaimed M'Ginnis, surveying Spike up and down in mock amazement, "this ain't you, Kid—no, this sure ain't you. Looks all t' th' company-promoter, don't he, Soapy?"
"'S' right, Kid, 's' right!" nodded the pallid youth, his smouldering eyes always turning toward M'Ginnis.
"Say, now, Bud, quit your kiddin'!" said Spike petulantly.
"But, Gee whiz!" exclaimed M'Ginnis, tightening his grasp, "you sure are some class, Kid, in that stiff collar an' sporty tie. How's the stock market? Are ye a bull or a bear?"
"Ah, cut it out, Bud!" cried the lad, writhing.
"Right-o, Kid, right-o!" said M'Ginnis, loosing his hold. "You're comin' over t' O'Rourke's t'night, of course?"
"Why, no, Bud—I can't."
"Oh, t' hell wid that—I got you all fixed up to go ten rounds wid Young Alf, th' East Side Wonder—"
"What?" exclaimed Spike, his eyes bright and eager, "you got me a match wi' Young Alf? Say, Bud—you ain't stringing me, are ye?"
"Not much. I told you I'd get ye a real chance—"
"Why," cried Spike, "if I was t' lick Young Alf, I'd be in line t' meet th' top-notchers!"
"Sure—if you lick him!" nodded M'Ginnis grimly.
"Say," said Spike, his face radiant, "I've just been waitin' an' waitin' for a chance like this—a chance t' show you an' th' bunch I can handle myself, an' now"—he stopped all at once, and shaking his head gloomily, turned away. "I forgot, I—I can't, Bud."
"Aw, what's bitin' ye?"
"I can't come t'night."
"Won't come, ye mean!"
"Can't, Bud."
"Why not?"
"I promised Hermy t' quit fightin'—"
"Is that all? Hermy don't have t' know nothin' about it. This is a swell chance for ye, Kid, the best you'll ever get, so just skin over t'night an' don't say nothin' t' nobody."
"I—can't, Bud—that's sure."
"Goin' t' give me d' throw-down, are ye?"
"I don't mean it that ways, Bud, but I can't break my promise t' Hermy—"
"She'd never know."
"She'd find out some ways; she always does, and I can't lie t' her."
"So you won't come, hey? We ain't classy enough for ye these days, hey? I guess goin' to an office every day is one thing an' crackin' a millionaire's crib's another."
"Cheese it, Bud, cheese it!" gasped Spike, pale and trembling.
"Right-o, Kid!" nodded M'Ginnis, "but I've been wantin' t' know how ye made your get-away that night."
"Oh, quit—quit talkin' of it!" Spike panted. "I—I want t' forget all about it. I been tryin' t' think it never happened."
"Ah, but you know it did," said M'Ginnis, "an' I know it, an' Soapy knows it did—don't yer, Soapy?"
"'S' right!" nodded Soapy, his voice soft, his eyes hard and malevolent.
"So we kinder want t' know," continued M'Ginnis, heedless always of those baleful watching eyes, "we just want t' get on t' how you—"
"Oh, say—give it a rest!" cried Spike desperately. "Give it a rest, can't ye?"
"Why, then, Kid, what about comin' over t' O'Rourke's t'night?"
Spike wrung his hands. "If Hermy finds out, she'll—cry, I guess—"
"Hermy!" growled M'Ginnis, black brows fierce and scowling, "a hell of a lot you care for Hermy, I—don't think!"
"Say now, you Bud, whatcher mean?" demanded Spike, quivering with sudden anger.
"Just this, Kid—what kind of a brother are ye t' go lettin' that noo pal o' yours—that guy you call Geoff—go sneaking round her morning, noon, an' night?"
"You cut that out, Bud M'Ginnis. Geoff don't! Geoff ain't that kind."
"He don't, eh? Well, what about all this talk that's goin' on—about him an' her, an' her an' him—eh?"
"What talk?" demanded Spike, suddenly troubled.
"Why, every one's beginnin' t' notice as they're always meetin' on th' stairs—an' him goin' into her flat, an' them talkin' an' laughin' together when you're out o' th' way—ah," growled M'Ginnis, between grinding white teeth, "an' likely as not kissin' an' squeezin' in corners—"
"That's enough—that's enough!" cried the boy, fronting M'Ginnis, fierce-eyed. "Nobody ain't goin' t' speak about Hermy that way."
"Y' can't help it, Kid. Here's this guy Geoff, this pal o' yours—been with her—in her flat with her, all th' mornin'—ain't he, Soapy?"
"'S' right, Kid!" nodded that pallid individual, the smouldering cigarette a-swing between pale lips; and, though he addressed Spike, his furtive eyes, watching aslant between narrowed lids, glittered to behold M'Ginnis's scowling brow; also the wolverine mouth curled faintly, so that the pendulous cigarette stirred and quivered.
"Oh, I'm handin' ye the straight goods, Kid," M'Ginnis went on. "I'm puttin' ye wise because you're my pal, an' because I've known Hermy an' been kind o' soft about her since we was kids."
"Well, then, you know she—she ain't that sort," said Spike, his voice quavering oddly. "So—don't you—say no more—see?"
"All right, Kid, all right—only I don't like t' see this pal o' yours gettin' in his dirty work behind your back. If anything happens—don't blame me—"
"What—what you tryin' t' tell me—you Bud?" questioned Spike, between quivering lips.
"I'm tellin' ye things are gettin' too warm—oh, Hermy ain't the icicle she tries t' make out she is."
"An' I'm tellin' you—you're a liar, Bud M'Ginnis—a dirty liar!" cried the boy.
M'Ginnis's bull neck swelled; between his thick, black brows a vein swelled and pulsed. Viewing this, Soapy's glittering eyes blinked, and the pendulous cigarette quivered faintly again.
"Now by—" began M'Ginnis, lifting menacing fist; then his arm sank, and he shook his big, handsome head. "Oh, pshaw!" he exclaimed, "I guess you're all worked up, Kid, so I ain't takin' no notice. But savvy this, Kid, if Hermy ain't goin' t' marry me on th' level, she ain't goin' t' let this guy have her—the other way—not much! I guess you ain't forgotten little Maggie Finlay? Well, watch out your pal Geoff don't make Hermy go th' same."
Uttering a wild, inarticulate cry, the lad sprang—to be caught in M'Ginnis's powerful grasp, but, even so, his fist grazed M'Ginnis's full-lipped mouth. For a moment Spike strove desperately to reach Bud's grim-smiling face until, finding his efforts vain, he ceased all at once, bowed his head upon his arms, and burst into a passion of bitter sobbing; then, with an agile twist, he wrenched himself free, and turning, sped away, heedless of his jaunty straw hat that had fallen and lay upon the dusty sidewalk. Languidly Soapy stooped and picked it up.
"His noo lid!" said he. "Only bought t'day, I reckon!"
"Gee!" exclaimed M'Ginnis, staring after Spike's fleeing figure, already far away, "he sure was some peevish!"
"Some!" nodded Soapy. "If he'd happened t' have a gun handy, here's where you'd have cashed in for good, I reckon. Yes, Bud, you'd be deader 'n' mutton!" sighed Soapy, turning Spike's hat around upon his finger. "You'd be as dead as—little Maggie Finlay you was mentionin'!"
M'Ginnis wheeled so suddenly upon the speaker that he took a long step backward, but he still spun Spike's hat upon his finger, and the pendulous cigarette quivered quite noticeably. "Aw, quit it, Bud, quit it!" he sighed. "You know I ain't th' kind o' guy it's healthy to punch around promiscuous."
"You mean if he'd missed, there was you, eh?"
"Well, I dunno, Bud, if it had been my sister—maybe—"
"Oh, I know the sort o' dirty tyke you are, Soapy—but I'm awake—an' I've got you, see? If anything was t' happen t' me, I've left papers—proofs—'n' it 'ud be the chair for yours—savvy?"
"Anyway, Bud, I—I haven't got a sister," said Soapy, juggling deftly with the hat. "But there's one thing, Bud, th' guy who gets actin' Mr. Freshy with Hermy is sure goin' to ante-up in kingdom come, if th' Kid's around."
"You're a dirty dog, Soapy, but you've got brains in your ugly dome, I guess you're right about th' Kid, an' that gives me an almighty good idea!" And M'Ginnis walked on awhile, deep in thought; and ever as he went, so between those pale and puffy lids two malevolent eyes watched and watched him.
"No," sighed Soapy at last, sliding a long, pale hand into the pocket of his smartly-tailored coat, "no, I ain't got a sister, Bud, but there was little Maggie Finlay. I kind o' used t' think she was all t' th' harps an' haloes. I used t' kind o' hope—but pshaw! she's dead—ain't she, Bud?"
"I guess so!" nodded M'Ginnis, yet deep in thought.
"An' buried—ain't she, Bud?"
"What th' hell!" exclaimed Bud, turning to stare, "what's bitin' ye?"
"I'm wonderin' 'why', an' I'm likewise wonderin' 'who', Bud. Maybe I'll find out for sure some day. I'm—waitin', Bud, waitin'. Goin' around t' O'Rourke's, are ye? Oh, well, I guess I'll hike along wid ye, Bud."