But while M’Ginnis stood scowling at the imperturbable speaker, Spike rose, a little unsteadily, and turned to the door.

“I’ll be gettin’ on me way, Bud,” said he.

“Where to?”

“Home.”

“What! Back t’ Hermy? After she turned ye out?”

“But I—I got t’ go somewheres—”

“Well, you stay right here with me, Kid; I’ll fix ye up all right—”

“‘S right, Kid!” nodded Soapy. “Bud’ll fix ye all right, same as I said; we’ll have in another bottle when that’s empty!”

“What about your sister, Kid?” demanded M’Ginnis fiercely. “What about Hermy an’ this swell guy? Are y’ goin’ t’ sit around an’ do nothin’?”

“But Geoff’s goin’ t’ marry her.”

“Marry her! What, him? A millionaire marry your sister? You think so, an’ she thinks so, but I know different!”

“But Hermy ain’t that sort. Hermy’s—good—”

“Sure, but this guy’s got her fazed—she thinks he’s square all right—she’ll trust him an’ then—s’posin’ he ain’t?”

“I—I ain’t s’posin’ nothin’ like that!” said Spike, gulping his whisky.

“Well, s’posin’ he’s been meetin’ her—in a wood—on the sly—eh? S’posin’ they been huggin’ an’ kissin’—”

“Say now—you cut that out—” stammered Spike, his voice thick. “I tell ye—she ain’t—that kind.”

“S’posin’,” continued Bud, refilling the lad’s glass, “s’posin’ I could show ‘em to ye in a wood—eh? Ah! What she want t’ meet him in a wood for, anyway—nice an’ quiet, eh?”

“Say now, Bud, I—I ain’t goin’ t’ listen t’ no more!” said Spike, rising and clutching at the table, “I—I’m goin’ home!” And swaying on unsteady feet, he turned to the door, but M’Ginnis gripped his shoulder.

“Wait a bit, Kid.”

“N-no, I’m—goin’ home—see!” said Spike, setting his jaw obstinately, “I’m goin’—r-right now!”

“That’s just what you ain’t!” snarled M’Ginnis. “Sit down! Hermy’s only a work-girl—don’t forget that, Kid—an’ this guy’s a millionaire. I guess he thinks Hermy’ll do—till he gets tired of her an’—then what?”

“He—told me he’s goin’ t’ marry her!” said Spike slowly, speaking with an effort, “an’ I guess Geoff ain’t a liar. An’ I wanter—go home.”

“Home—after she throwed ye out? Ain’t ye got no pride?”

“Aw, say, Bud,” sighed Soapy, “I guess d’ Kid ain’t soused enough for pride yet; sling another glass int’ him—that’ll fix him good, I reckon.”

“I ain’t g-goin’ t’ drink no more,” said Spike, resting heavy head between his hands, “I guess I’ll b-beat it home, f’lers.”

“Bud,” suggested Soapy, “ain’t it about time you rang in little Maggie on him?”

M’Ginnis whirled upon the speaker, snarling, but Soapy, having lighted another cigarette, nudged Spike with a sharp elbow.

“Kid,” said he, “Bud’s goin’ t’ remind ye of little Maggie Finlay—you remember little Maggie as drowned herself.” Spike lifted a pale face and stared from the placid Soapy to scowling Bud and shrank away.

“Yes,” he whispered hoarsely, “yes—I’ll never forget how she looked—pale, so pale an’ still, an’ th’ water—runnin’ out of her brown curls—I—I’ll never forget—”

“Well,” growled M’Ginnis, “watch out Hermy don’t end th’ same way.”

“No!” cried Spike. “Oh, my God—no!”

“What’s she meetin’ this millionaire in a wood for—on the sly?”

“She don’t! Hermy ain’t like that.”

“I tell ye she does!” cried M’Ginnis, “an’ him kissin’ an’ squeezin’ her an’—nobody by—”

“It’s a lie, Bud—she—she wouldn’t!”

“S’posin’ I could show ye? S’pose you see him there—waitin’ for her—”

“If—if he means any harm t’ Hermy, I—I’ll kill him!”

“Aw—you wouldn’t have the nerve, Kid!”

“I’d shoot him dead—by God, I would!”

“You ain’t man enough, Kid.”

“You g-give me a gun an’ see. I’d shoot any one t’ save my sister from—th’ river. Oh, my God—I—I’d die for her, an’ she don’t love me no more!” And leaning his head upon his arms, Spike burst into a passion of tears. M’Ginnis watched him awhile, then, filling the boy’s glass, clapped him on the shoulder and held it to his lips.

“Neck this, Kid,” said he, “neck it all—so, that’s good, ain’t it? To-morrow evenin’ I’ll take ye where they meet; maybe you’ll ketch him waitin’ for her—but instead of Hermy an’ kisses there’ll be you an’ me, hey? Will ye come?”

“S-sure I will if—you’ll gimme—your gun.”

“Pshaw, Kid—what’s a kid like you want with a gun?”

“T’shoot him—”

“Eh? What? D’ye mean—?”

“If he’s after my sister, I’ll—kill him! I will, by God, I will!”

“‘S right,” nodded Soapy, staring into the boy’s drawn face, “‘s right, Bud; if ever I see a killer—th’ Kid’s sure it!”

Slowly the glare died out of Spike’s eyes, his body drooped, and sighing, he pillowed his heavy head upon the table and fell into a drunken slumber. For a while the two men sat there hearkening to his stertorous breathing, then Soapy laughed soft and mirthlessly. “You sure got th’ Kid all worked up an’ mad enough t’—kill, eh, Bud? If he does get up against this guy Geoff—this guy Geoff’s sure goin’ t’ cash in—sudden. Consequently, I guess you’ll be wantin’ paper an’ pencil—both here!”

“What th’ hell—” began M’Ginnis.

“Telegram, Bud. You’re goin’ t’ frame up a nice little telegram t’ this guy Geoff—oh, you sure are th’ fly gazebo! A nice little message—’meet me t’morrow in the wood at sunset—Hermy?’ Somethin’ nice ‘n’ romantic like that’ll bring him on th’ run—eh, Bud? Then, ‘stead of Hermy, comes you an’ th’ Kid, eh, Bud? An’ ‘stead of kisses, this guy Geoff gets a lead pill—eh, Bud? Th’ Kid can’t miss if you get him close enough. It sure is some scheme, Bud; I couldn’t have thought it out better myself. Paper ‘n’ pencil, Bud—get busy an’ I’ll sashay over an’ send it off for ye—t’night.”

During Soapy’s unusually long speech, M’Ginnis sat staring at him under frowning brows, but now he turned and scowled down at the sheet of paper, picked up the pencil, laid it by again and sat opening and shutting his big hands, while Soapy, lighting another cigarette, watched him furtively. When at last he spoke, his voice was thick, and he didn’t lift his scowling gaze.

“Send that kid Larry t’ me, an’ say—you don’t have t’ come back.”

“All right, Bud, all right—only you’d best send two telegrams t’ make sure—one t’ Fift’ Av, an’ one t’ his place up th’ river. S’ long, Buddy!”

Some fifteen minutes later, the boy Larry, stepping out of O’Rourke’s, was swung to the wall in Soapy’s grip.

“Aw—say, cheese it now! Is that you, Soapy?”

“‘S right, my bucko. Fork out that telegram—quick!”

“Aw, say, what yer mean—’n’ say, Bud told me to hustle, ‘n’ say—”

“Dig it out—quick!” said Soapy, the dangling cigarette glowing fiercely. “I want it—see?”

“But say—” whimpered Larry, “what’ll Bud say—”

“Nothin’! Bud ain’t goin’ t’ know. You take this instead—take it!” And Soapy thrust another folded paper into the boy’s limp hand, who took it whimpering.

“Bud tol’ me t’ bring it back.”

“Well, you tell him you lost it.”

“Not much—I’ll skin right back an’ tell him you pinched it.”

“You won’t, my sport, you won’t!” said Soapy, and speaking, moved suddenly; and the boy, uttering a gasp of terror, shrank cowering with the muzzle of Soapy’s deadly weapon against the pit of his stomach. “You ain’t goin’ t’ say a word t’ Bud nor nobody else, are ye, Larry boy, are ye?”

“No—no—”

“Because if ye ever did, old sport, I should give it ye there—right there in the tum-tum, see? Now chase off, an’ see ye get them addresses right. S’long, Larry boy, be good now!” When the boy had scudded away, Soapy opened the paper and scanned the words of M’Ginnis’s telegram and, being alone, smiled as he glanced through it.

“You got th’ Kid, Bud,” he murmured, “you got th’ Kid—but if th’ Kid gets the guy Geoff, why—I’ve sure got you, Bud—got ye sure as hell, Bud!”

CHAPTER XXXII

OF HARMONY AND DISCORD

Mr. Brimberly, comfortably ensconced in Young R.’s favourite armchair, nodded ponderously and beat time to the twang of Mr. Jenkins’s banjo, whereto Mr. Stevens sang in a high-pitched and rather shaky tenor the latest musical success yclept “Sammy.” Thus, Mr. Jenkins strummed, Mr. Stevens trilled, and Mr. Brimberly alternately beat the tempo with a plump white finger and sipped his master’s champagne until, having emptied his glass, he turned to the bottle on the table beside him, found that empty also, crossed to the two bottles on the mantel, found them likewise void and had tried the two upon the piano with no better success, when, the song being ended, Mr. Jenkins struck in with:

“All dead men, Brim! Six of ‘em between us—not bad going, what?”

“And very good fizz too, on the whole!” added Mr. Stevens. “I always sing better on champagne. But come, Brim my boy, I’ve obliged with everything I know, and Jenk, ‘e ‘s played everything ‘e knows, and I must say with great delicacy an’ feelin’—now it’s your turn—somethin’.”

“Well,” answered Mr. Brimberly, squinting at an empty bottle, “I used to know a very good song once, called ‘Let’s drownd all our sorrers and cares.’ But good ‘eavens! we can’t drownd ‘em in empty bottles, can we?”

“Oh, very good!” chuckled Mr. Jenkins, “oh, very prime! If I might suggest, there’s nothin’ like port—port’s excellent tipple for drowndin’ sorrer and downing care—what?”

“Port, sir?” repeated Mr. Brimberly, “we ‘ave enough port in our cellars to drownd every sorrer an’ care in Noo York City. I’m proud of our port, sir, and I’m reckoned a bit of a connysoor—”

“Ah, it takes a eddicated palate to appreciate good port!” nodded Mr. Jenkins loftily, “a eddicated palate—what?”

“Cert’nly!” added Mr. Stevens, “an’ here’s two palates waitin’, waitin’ an’ ready to appreciate till daylight doth appear.”