“Burnt ‘em!” cried M’Ginnis in a strangled voice, “burnt ‘em—you—”

“It ain’t no use t’ get riled, Bud; I burnt ‘em—there’s th’ ashes!”

M’Ginnis glanced at the heap of ash by the stove and burst into a frenzy of curses and fierce invective, while Soapy, lounging back in the chair, watched him unmoved until he had done, then he spoke again:

“Also I found—letters, Bud, a packet tied up in blue ribbon—an’, Bud, they matter a whole lot. Here they are—look at ‘em!”

For a moment Soapy’s baleful eye turned aside to the desk as he reached for the letters, and in that moment M’Ginnis’s pistol spoke, and Soapy, lurching sideways, sagged to his knees, his back against the desk. Again and again M’Ginnis’s weapon clicked, but no report followed, and Soapy slowly dragged himself to his feet. His cigarette fell and lay smouldering, and for a moment he stared at it; then he laughed softly and glanced at M’Ginnis.

“You fool, Bud, you dog-gone fool! Forgot t’ load up y’r gun, eh? But I guess you got me all right, anyway—you’re shootin’ better t’night than you did in the wood that time—eh, Bud? Now I want t’ tell you—” He was choked suddenly with a ghastly coughing, and when he spoke again, his voice was fainter, and he held a smartly-bordered handkerchief to his mouth.

“They say God made this world, Bud—if He did, I guess He was asleep when you was made, Bud—anyway, remembering little Maggie, you ain’t got no right to breathe any longer—so that’s for me—an’ that’s for her!”

Lounging still, he fired twice from the hip and M’Ginnis, twisting upon his heels, fell and lay with his face at his slayer’s feet. Then, spying the packet of letters that lay upon the grimy floor, Soapy stooped painfully and fired rapidly four times; when the smoke cleared, of those tear-blotted pages with their secret of a woman’s anguish, there remained nothing but a charred piece of ribbon and a few smouldering fragments of paper. And now Soapy was seized with another fit of coughing, above which he heard hoarse shouts and hands that thundered at the door. Lazily he stood upon his feet, turned to glance from that scorched ribbon to the still form upon the floor and, lifting a lazy foot, ground his heel into that still face, then, crossing unsteadily to the door, unlocked it. Beyond was a crowd, very silent now, who drew back to give him way, but Soapy paused in the doorway and leaned there a moment.

“What’s doin’?” cried a voice.

“Say, run f’r a doctor, somebody—quick—Soapy’s hurt bad, I reckon—”

“Hurt?” said Soapy, in soft, lazy tones. “‘S right! But—say—fellers, there’s a son of a dog in there—waitin’ f’r a spade—t’ bury him!” Then Soapy laughed, choked, and groping before him blindly, staggered forward, and pitching sideways, fell with his head beneath a table and died there.

CHAPTER XLV

OF THE OLD UN AND FATE

Spike leaned back among his cushions and, glancing away across close-cropped lawns and shady walks, sighed luxuriously.

“Say, Ann,” he remarked. “Gee whiz, Trapesy, there sure ain’t no flies on this place of old Geoff’s!”

“Flies,” said Mrs. Trapes, glancing up from her household accounts, “you go into the kitchen an’ look around.”

“I mean it’s aces up.”

“Up where?” queried Mrs. Trapes.

“Well, it’s a regular Jim-dandy cracker-jack—some swell clump, eh?”

“Arthur, that low, tough talk don’t go with me,” said Mrs. Trapes, and resumed her intricate calculations again.

“Say, when’ll Geoff an’ Hermy be back?”

“Well, considerin’ she’s gone to N’ York t’ buy more clo’es as she don’t need, an’ considerin’ Mr. Ravenslee’s gone with her, I don’t know.”

“An’ what you do know don’t cut no ice. Anyway, I’m gettin’ lonesome.”

“What, ain’t I here?” demanded Mrs. Trapes sharply.

“Sure. I can’t lose you!”

“Oh! Now I’ll tell you what it is, my good b’y—”

“Cheese it, Trapes, you make me tired, that’s what.”

“If you sass me, I’ll box your young ears—an’ that’s what!”

“I don’t think!” added Spike. “Nobody ain’t goin’ t’ box me. I’m a sure enough invalid, and don’t you forget it.”

“My land!” exclaimed Mrs. Trapes, “a bit of a hole in his arm, that’s all.”

“Well, I wish you got it, ‘stead o’ me—it smarts like sixty!”

“Shows it’s healin’. Doctor said as it’ll be well in a week.”

“Doctor!” sniffed Spike, “he don’t know what I suffer. I may be dyin’ for all he knows.”

“You are!” sighed Mrs. Trapes, with a gloomy nod.

“Eh—what?” exclaimed Spike, sitting up.

“So am I—we all are—by the minute. Every night we’re a day’s march nearer home! So now jest set right there an’ go on dyin’, my b’y!”

“Say, now, cut it out,” said Spike, wriggling. “That ain’t no kind o’ way t’ cheer an invalid.”

“It’s th’ truth.”

“Well, it don’t cheer me more, so let’s have a lie for a change.”

Mrs. Trapes snorted and fell to adding and subtracting busily.

“Say, Ann,” said he after awhile, “if you got any more o’ that punkin pie I could do some right now. I’m hungry.”

“It ain’t eatin’ time yet.”

“But—Gee! ain’t I a invalid?”

“Sure! Consequently you must be fed slow an’ cautious.”

“Oh, fudge! What’s th’ good of a guy bein’ a invalid if a guy can’t feed when he wants to?”

“What’s a hundred an’ ninety-one from twenty-three?” enquired Mrs. Trapes.

“Skidoo!” murmured Spike sulkily. But after Mrs. Trapes had subtracted and added busily he spoke again.

“You ain’t such a bad old gink—sometimes,” he conceded.

“Gink?” said Mrs. Trapes, glaring.

“I mean you can be a real daisy when you want to.”

“Can I?”

“Sure! Sometimes you can be so kind an’ nice I like you a whole lot!”

“Is that so?”

“You bet it is—honest Injun.”

“Arthur, if it’s that pie you want—”

“It ain’t!”

“Well, what is it?”

“How d’ ye know I want anything?”

“Oh, I just guess, maybe.”

“Well, say—if you could cop me one o’ Geoff’s cigarettes—one o’ them with gold letterin’ onto ‘em—”

“You mean—thieve you one!”

“Why, no, a cigarette ain’t thievin’. Say, now, dear old Trapesy, I’m jest dyin’ for a gasper!”

“Well, you go on dyin’, an’ I’ll set right here an’ watch how you do it.”

“If I was t’ die you’d be sorry for this, I reckon.”

“Anyway, I’d plant some flowers on you, my lad, an’ keep your lonely grave nice—”

“Huh!” sniffed Spike, “a lot o’ good that ‘ud do me when I was busy pushin’ up th’ daisies. It’s what I want now that matters.”

“An’ what you want now, Arthur, is a rod of iron—good ‘n’ heavy. Discipline’s your cryin’ need, an’ you’re sure goin’ t’ get it.”

“Oh? Where?”

“At college! My land, think of you at Yale or Harvard or C’lumbia—”

“Sure you can think; thinkin’ can’t cut no ice.”

“Anyway, you’re goin’ soon as you’re fit; Mr. Geoffrey says so.”

“Oh, Geoff’s batty—he’s talkin’ in his sleep. I ain’t goin’ t’ no college—Geoff’s got sappy in th’ bean—”

“Well, you tell him so.”

“Sure thing—you watch me!”

“No, I’ll get you somethin’ t’ eat—some milk an’—”

“Say, what about that punkin pie?”

“You sit right there an’ wait.”

“Chin-Chin!” nodded Spike, and watched her into the house.

No sooner was he alone than he was out of his chair and, descending the steps into the garden, sped gleefully away across lawns and along winding paths, following a haphazard course. But, as he wandered thus, he came to the stables and so to a large building beyond, where were many automobiles of various patterns and make; and here, very busy with brushes, sponge, and water, washing a certain car and making a prodigious splashing, was a figure there was no mistaking, and one whom Spike hailed in joyous surprise.

“Well, well, if it ain’t th’ old Spider! Gee, but I’m glad t’ see you! Say, old sport, I’m a invalid—pipe my bandages, will ye?”

“Huh!” grunted the Spider, without glancing up from the wheel he was washing.

“Say, old lad,” continued Spike, “I guess they told you how I put it all over Bud, eh?”

“Mph!” said the Spider, slopping the water about.

“Heard how I saved old Geoff from gettin’ snuffed out, didn’t yer?”

“Huh-umph!” growled the Spider.

“That’s sure some car, eh? Gee, but it’s good t’ see you again, anyway. How’d you come here, Spider?”

“U-huh!” said the Spider.

“Say,” exclaimed Spike, “quit makin’ them noises an’ say somethin’, can’t yer? If you can’t talk t’ a pal, I’m goin’.”

“Right-o, Kid!” said the Spider; “only see as you don’t go sheddin’ no more buttons around.”

“B-buttons!” stammered Spike. “What yer mean? What buttons?”

The Old Un, who happened to have been dozing in the limousine that stood in a shady corner, sat up suddenly and blinked.

“Why, I mean,” answered the Spider, wringing water from the sponge he held and speaking very deliberately, “I mean the button as you—left behind you—in th’ wood!”

Spike gasped and sat down weakly upon the running-board of a car, and the Old Un stole a furtive peep at him.

“So you—know—?”

“Sure I know—more ‘n I want t’ know about you, so—chase yourself out o’ here—beat it!”

Spike stared in mute amazement, then flushed painfully.

“You mean—you an’ me—ain’t goin’ t’ be pals no longer?” he asked wistfully.

“That’s what!” nodded the Spider, without lifting his scowling gaze from the sponge. “Kid, I ain’t no Gold-medal Sunday-school scholar nor I ain’t never won no prizes at any Purity League conference, but there’s some guys too rotten even f’r me!”

“But I—I—saved his life, didn’t I?”

“That ain’t nothin’ t’ blow about after what you did in that wood. Oh, wake up an’ see just how dirty an’ rotten you are!”