“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.

CHAPTER XVIII

HOW SPIKE HEARKENED TO POISONOUS SUGGESTION AND SOAPY BEGAN TO WONDER

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?”