Hereupon Mr. Brimberly rolled his eyes in Spike’s direction, glanced him over, touched either whisker, and bowed—and lo! those fleecy whiskers were now eloquent of pompous dignity, beholding which Spike shuffled his feet, averted his eyes, and twisted his cap into a very tight ball indeed.

But now Brimberly turned his eyes (and his whiskers) on his master, who had taken out his watch.

“Brimberly,” said he, “it is now very nearly two o’clock.”

“Very late, sir—oh, very late, sir—indeed, I was in the very hact of goin’ to bed, sir—I’d even unbuttoned my waistcoat, sir, when you rang—two o’clock, sir—dear me, a most un-‘oly hour, sir—”

“Consequently, Brimberly, I am thinking of taking a little outing—”

“Certingly, sir—oh, certingly!”

“And I want some other clothes—”

“Clothes, sir—yessir. There’s the noo ‘arris tweed, sir—”

“With holes in them, if possible, Brimberly.”

“‘Oles, sir! Beg parding, sir, but did you say ‘oles, sir?”

“Also patches, Brimberly, the bigger the better!”

“Patches! Hexcuse me, sir, but—patches! I beg parding, but—” Mr. Brimberly laid a feeble hand upon a twitching whisker.

“In a word, Brimberly,” pursued his master, seating himself upon the escritoire and swinging his leg, “I want some old clothes, shabby clothes—moth-eaten, stained, battered, and torn. Also a muffler and an old hat. Can you find me some?”

“No, sir, I don’t—that is, yessir, I do. Hexcuse me, sir—’arf a moment, sir.” Saying which, Mr. Brimberly bowed and went from the room with one hand still clutching his whisker very much as though he had taken himself into custody and were leading himself out.

“Say,” exclaimed Spike in a hoarse whisper and edging nearer to Mr. Ravenslee, “who’s His Whiskers—de swell guy with d’ face trimmings?”

“Why, since you ask, Spike, he is a very worthy person who devotes his life to—er—looking after my welfare and—other things.”

“Holy Gee!” exclaimed Spike, staring, “I should have thought you was big ‘nuff to do that fer yourself, unless—” and here he broke off suddenly and gazed on Mr. Ravenslee’s long figure with a new and more particular interest.

“Unless what?”

“Say—you ain’t got bats in your belfry, have you—you ain’t weak in the think-box, or soft in the nut, are ye?”

“No—at least not more than the average, I believe.”

“I mean His Whiskers don’t have to lead you around on a string or watch out you don’t set fire to yourself, does he?”

“Well, strictly speaking, I can’t say that his duties are quite so far-reaching.”

“Who are you, anyway?”

“Well, my names are Geoffrey, Guy, Eustace, Hughson-and—er—a few others, but these will do to go on with, perhaps?”

“Well, I guess yes!”

“You can take your choice.”

“Well, Guy won’t do—no siree—ye see every mutt’s a guy down our way—so I guess we’ll make it Geoff. But, say, if you ain’t weak on the think-machinery, why d’ ye keep a guy like His Whiskers hanging around?”

“Because he has become a habit, Spike—and habits cling—and speaking of habits—here it is!” Sure enough, at that moment Brimberly’s knuckles made themselves discreetly heard, and Brimberly himself appeared with divers garments across his arm, at sight of which Spike stood immediately dumb in staring, awe-struck wonder.

“Ah, you’ve got them, Brimberly?”

“Yessir! These is the best I can do, sir—”

“Say rather—the worst!”

“‘Ere’s a nice, big ‘ole in the coat, sir,” said Mr. Brimberly, unfolding the garment in question, “and the weskit, sir; the pocket is tore, you’ll notice, sir.”

“Excellent, Brimberly!”

“As for these trousis, sir—”

“They seem rather superior garments, I’m afraid!” said Mr. Ravenslee, shaking his head.

“But you’ll notice as they’re very much wore round the ‘eels, sir.”

“They’ll do. Now the hat and muffler.”

“All ‘ere, sir—the ‘at’s got its brim broke, sir.”

“Couldn’t be better, Brimberly!” So saying, Mr. Ravenslee took up the clothes and turned toward the door. “Now I’ll trouble you to keep an eye on—er—young America here while I get into these.”

“Sir,” said Mr. Brimberly, turning his whiskers full upon Spike, who immediately fell to shuffling and wringing at his cap. “Sir—I will, certingly, sir.”

Now when the door had shut after his master, Mr. Brimberly raised eyes and hands to the ceiling and shook his head until his whiskers quivered. Quoth he: “Hall I arsks is—wot next!” Thereafter he lowered his eyes and regarded Spike as if he had been that basest of base minions—a boy in buttons. At last he deigned speech.

“And w’en did you come in, pray?”

“‘Bout a hour ago, sir,” answered Spike, dropping his cap in his embarrassment.

“Ah!” nodded Mr. Brimberly, “about a hour ago—ho! By appointment, I pre-zoom?”

“No, sir—by a winder.”

“A—wot?”

“A winder, sir.”

“A—winder? ‘Eavens and earth—a winder—ow? Where? Wot for?”

“Say, mister,” said Spike, breaking in upon Mr. Brimberly’s astounded questioning, “is he nutty?” And he jerked his thumb toward the door through which Mr. Ravenslee had gone.

“Nutty!” said Mr. Brimberly, staring.

“Yes—I mean is he batty? Has he got wheels?”

“W’eels?” said Mr. Brimberly, his eyes rounder than usual.

“Well, then, is he daffy?—off his trolley?”

“Off ‘is wot?” said Mr. Brimberly, fumbling for his whisker.

“Holy Gee!” exclaimed Spike, “can’t you understand English? Say, is your brother as smart as you?”

“The honly brother as ever I ‘ad was a infant as died and—but wot was you saying about a winder?”

“Nothin’!”

“Come, speak up, you young vagabone—” began Mr. Brimberly, his whiskers suddenly fierce and threatening, but just then, fortunately for Spike, the door swung, open, and Mr. Ravenslee entered.

And lo! what a change was here! The battered hat, the faded muffler and shabby clothes seemed only to show off all the hitherto hidden strength and vigour of the powerful limbs below; indeed it almost seemed that with his elegant garments he had laid aside his lassitude also and taken on a new air of resolution, for his eyes were sleepy no longer, and his every gesture was lithe and quick. So great was the change that Spike stared speechless, and Mr. Brimberly gaped with whiskers a-droop.

“Well, shall I do?” enquired Mr. Ravenslee, tightening his faded neckerchief.

“Do?” repeated Spike, “say—you look all to d’ mustard, Geoff! You—you look as if you could—do things, now!”

“Strangely enough, Spike, I rather feel that way too!” So saying, Mr. Ravenslee took a pipe from the rack, filled it with quick, energetic fingers, and proceeded to light it, watched in dumb amaze by the gaping Brimberly.

“Brimberly,” said he, “I shall probably return to-morrow.”

“Yes, sir,” said he faintly.

“Or the day after.”

“Yes, sir!”

“Or the day after.”

“Yes, sir!”

“Or the day after that; anyhow, I shall probably return. Should any one call—business or otherwise—tell ‘em to call again; say I’m out of town—you understand?”

“Out of town—certingly, sir.”

“Referring to—to the matter we talked of to-night, Brimberly—”

“Meaning the hobject, sir?”

“Precisely! Don’t trouble yourself about it.”

“No, sir?”

“No, Brimberly—I’m going to try and find one for myself.”

“Ho—very good, sir!”

“And now,” said the new Mr. Ravenslee, laying one white, ringless hand on Spike’s shoulder and pointing toward the open door with the other, “lead on—young Destiny!”

CHAPTER IV

TELLING HOW HE CAME TO HELL’S KITCHEN AT PEEP O’ DAY

It was past three o’clock and dawn was at hand as, by devious ways, Spike piloted his companion through that section of New York City which is known to the initiated as “Hell’s Kitchen.” By dismal streets they went, past silent, squalid houses and tall tenements looming grim and ghostly in the faint light; crossing broad avenues very silent and deserted at this hour, on and on until, dark and vague and mysterious, the great river flowed before them only to be lost again as they plunged into a gloomy court where tall buildings rose on every hand, huge and very silent, teeming with life—but life just now wrapped in that profound quietude of sleep which is so much akin to death. Into one of these tall tenement buildings, its ugliness rendered more ugly by the network of iron fire-escape ladders that writhed up the face of it, Spike led the way, first into a dark hallway and thence up many stairs that echoed to their light-treading feet—on and up, past dimly lit landings where were doors each of which shut in its own little world, a world distinct and separate wherein youth and age, good and evil, joy and misery, lived and moved and had their being; behind these dingy panels were smiling hope and black despair, blooming health and pallid sickness, and all those sins and virtues that go to make up the sum total of humanity.

Something of all this was in Geoffrey Ravenslee’s mind as he climbed the dingy, interminable stair behind Spike, who presently halted to get his wind and whisper:

“It ain’t much further now, Geoff, only another two flights and—” He stopped suddenly to listen, and from the landing above a sound reached them, a sound soft but unmistakable—a woman’s muffled sobbing.

Slowly, cautiously, they mounted the stair until in the dim light of a certain landing they beheld a slim figure bowed upon its knees in an agony of abasement before a scarred and dingy door. Even as they stared, the slender, girlish figure sobbed again, and, with a sudden, yearning gesture, lifted a face, pale in the half-light, and kissed that battered door; thereafter, weeping still, she rose to her feet and turned, but seeing Spike, stood very still all at once and with hands clasped tight together.