“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 momen
t 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.”
CHAPTER XIX
IN WHICH THE POISON BEGINS TO WORK
Spike sat glowering at the newspaper, yet very conscious, none the less, that Hermione often turned to glance at him wistfully as she bustled to and fro; at last she spoke.
“Arthur, dear—why so gloomy?”
“I ain’t—I mean, I’m not.”
“You’re not sulking about anything?”
“No.”
“Then you’re sick.”
“I’m all right.”
“But you didn’t enjoy your dinner a little bit.”
“I—I wasn’t hungry, I guess,” said Spike, frowning down at the paper. But Hermione was beside him, her cool fingers caressing his curls.
“Boy, dear—what is it?”
“Say, Hermy, where’d you get them roses?” and he nodded to the flowers she had set among her shining hair.
“Oh, Mr. Geoffrey brought them.”
“Been here, has he?”
“Yes, he came in with Ann this morning—why?”
“Did he—did he stay long?”
“N-o, I don’t think so—why?”
“Comes round here pretty often, don’t he?”
“Why, you see, he’s your friend, dear, and we are very near neighbours.”
“Oh, I know all that, but—folks are beginning to—talk.”
Hermione’s smooth brows were wrinkled faintly and her caressing hand had fallen away.
“To talk!” she repeated, “you mean about—me?”
“Yes!” nodded Spike, avoiding her eyes, “about you and—him!”
“Well—let them!” she answered gently, “you and Ann are all I care about, so let them talk.”
“But I—I don’t like folks t’ talk about my sister, an’ it’s got t’ stop. You got t’ tell him so, or else I will. What’s he got t’ go buying ye flowers for, anyway?”
Hermione’s black brows knit in a sudden frown. “Arthur, don’t be silly!”
“Oh, I know you think I’m only a kid—but I ain’t—I’m not. If you can’t take care of—of yourself, I must and—”
“Arthur—stop!”
“Well, but what’s he always crawlin’ around here for?”
“He doesn’t crawl—he couldn’t,” she cried in sudden anger; then in gentler tones, “I don’t think you’d better say any more, or maybe I shall grow angry. If you have grown to think so—so badly of him, remember I’m your sister.”
“But you’re a girl, an’ he’s a man an’—”
“Stop it!” Hermione stamped her foot, and meeting her flashing glance, Spike wilted and—stopped it. So, while he glowered at the paper again, Hermione put away the dinner things, making more clatter about it than was usual, and turning now and then to glance at him from under her long lashes.
“Where did you meet M’Ginnis as you came home, Arthur?”
“At the corner of—say, who told you I met him?”
“You did.”
“I never said a word about meetin’ him.”
“No, but you’ve been telling me what he told you. Only M’Ginnis could be vile enough to dare say such things about me. Oh, Arthur, for shame—how can you listen to that brute beast—for shame!”
Now, meeting the virginal purity of those eyes, Spike felt his cheeks burn, and he wriggled in his chair.
“Bud only told me Geoff had been—been here,” he stammered, “and I guess it was the truth—I—I mean—”
“Oh, boy, for shame!” and turning about, she swept from the room, her head carried very high, leaving him crouched in his chair, his nervous fingers twisting and turning a small box in his pocket—the box that held the forgotten hair-comb. He was still sitting miserably thus when he heard a knock on the outer door and a moment later a woman’s voice, querulous and high-pitched.
“Oh, Miss Hermy, my Martin’s very bad t’night, an’ I got t’ go out, an’ I can’t leave him alone; would ye mind comin’ down an’ sittin’ with him for a bit?”
“Why, of course I will.”
“Y’ see, since he had th’ stroke, he’s sorrered for our little Maggie—he was hard on her, y’ see, an’ since she—she died—he’s been grievin’ for her. Had himself laid in her little room—seemed to comfort him somehow. But to-day, when he heard we had to leave because th’ rent was rose, it nigh broke his poor heart. An’ I got to go out, an’ I can’t leave him alone, so—if y’ wouldn’t mind, Miss Hermy—”
“Just a moment—I’ll come right now.” As she spoke, Hermione reentered the kitchen, untying her apron as she came. Spike sat watching, waiting, yearning for a word, but without even a glance Hermione turned and left him. When he was alone, he started to his feet and tearing the box from his pocket dashed it fiercely to the floor; then as suddenly picked it up, and approaching the open window, drew back his hand to hurl it out and so stood, staring into the face that had risen to view beyond the window ledge, a round face with two very round eyes, a round button of a nose, and a wide mouth just now up-curving in a grin.
“Hey, you, Larry, what you hangin’ around here for?” demanded Spike, slipping the box into his pocket again. “What you doin’ on our fire escape, hey?”
“Brought back yer roof!
” replied the lad.
“Well, where is it?”
“Here it is.” And climbing astride the window sill, Larry handed in the jaunty straw.
“Where’d you find it?”
“Bud give it me, ‘n’ say—”
“All right,” nodded Spike, dusting the straw tenderly with a handkerchief. “Now git, I wanter be alone.”
“But, say, Kid, Bud says I was ter say as he’s sorry for what he said, ‘n’ say, he says you’d better be gettin’ over t’ O’Rourke’s, ‘n’ say—”
“I ain’t comin’!”
“But say, you’re t’ fight Young Alf, ‘n’ say—”
“I ain’t comin’!”
“But say, dere’s a lot of our money on ye—I got two plunks meself, ‘n’ say, you just gotter fight anyway. Bud says so—”
“I can’t help what Bud says; I ain’t comin’.”
“Not comin’!” exclaimed Larry, his eyes rounder than ever.
“No!”
Larry’s wide mouth curved in a slow grin, and he nodded his close-cropped head; said he:
“Say, Kiddo, you know Young Alf’s a punishin’ fighter, I guess; you know as nobody’s never stopped him yet, don’t yer; you know as you’re givin’ him six pounds—say, you ain’t—scared, are ye?”
“Scared?” repeated Spike, frowning. “Do I look like I was scared? You know there ain’t any guy I’m scared of—but I promised Hermy—”
“Pip-pip!” grinned Larry. “Say, if you don’t turn up t’night, d’ye know what d’ bunch’ll say? Dey’ll say you’re a—quitter!”
“Well, don’t you say it, that’s all!” said Spike, laying aside his hat and clenching his fists.
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