The Definite Object

by Jeffery Farnol

  “Not me!” grinned Larry. “There’ll be plenty to do that, I guess—dey’d call it after ye in d’ streets—dey’ll give ye th’ ha! ha! Dey’ll say Hermy Chesterton’s brother’s a quitter—a quitter!”

  For a long moment Spike stood with bent head and hands tightly clenched, then crossing to the sideboard, he picked up his shabby cap.

  “Who’s in my corner?”

  “Now you’re talkin’, Kiddo; I know as you—”

  “Who’s in my corner?”

  “Bud an’ Lefty, ‘n’ say, I guess they can handle you all right, eh? ‘N’ say, come on, let’s cop a sneak before any one butts in—d’ fire escape for ours, eh?”

  “Sure!” said Spike, climbing through the window. “Oh, there ain’t nobody goin’ t’ call Hermy Chesterton’s brother a quitter.”

  “You bet there ain’t!” grinned Larry, “come on, Kid!”

  CHAPTER XX

  OF AN EXPEDITION BY NIGHT

  “Why, Mr. Geoffrey, what you settin’ here in the dark for?”

  “Is it dark, Mrs. Trapes?”

  “My land! Can’t you see as it’s too dark t’ see, and—oh, shucks, Mr. Geoffrey!”

  “Certainly, Mrs. Trapes! But can’t you see that the whole world—my world, anyway—is full of a refulgent glory, a magic light where nothing mean or sordid can possibly be, a light that my eyes never saw till now nor hoped to see, a radiance that may never fail, I hope—a—er—”

  “Oh, go on, Mr. Geoffrey, go on. Only I guess I’ll light the gas jest the same, if you don’t mind!” Which Mrs. Trapes did forthwith. “But what was you a-doin’ of all alone in the dark?”

  “Glorying in life, Mrs. Trapes, and praising the good God for health and strength to enjoy it and the fulness thereof—”

  “‘Fulness thereof’ meanin’ jest what, Mr. Geoffrey?”

  “The most beautiful thing in a beautiful world, Mrs. Trapes.”

  “An’ that’s Hermy, I s’pose. An’ all that talk o’ glory an’ radiance an’ magic light means as you’ve been an’ spoke, I guess?”

  “It does.”

  “An’ what did she say?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothin’?”

  “Not with her lips, but—”

  “Oh—her eyes, was it? Mr. Geoffrey, I’ll tell you what—a girl may look ‘yes’ with her eyes a whole week an’ say ‘no’ with her mouth jest once and mean ‘no’—when it’s to a peanut man—Lordy Lord! what’s that?” And Mrs. Trapes jumped as a hand rapped softly on the door, and stared horrified to see a human head protrude itself into the room while a voice said:

  “Da Signorina she out, so me come tell-a you piece-a-da-noos—”

  “Why, if it ain’t that blessed guinney! Go away—what d’ye want?”

  Hereupon Tony flashed his white teeth, and opening the door, bowed with his inimitable grace, grew solemn, tapped his nose, winked knowingly, and laid finger to lip.

  “My land!” said Mrs. Trapes, staring. “What’s the matter with the Eyetalian iji’t now?”

  “Spike—he go make-a-da-fight!” whispered Tony hoarsely.

  “Eh—Arthur fightin’—where?”

  “He go make-a-da-box—he drink-a-da-booze, den he walk-a—so! Den da Signorina she-a-cry—”

  “Oh!” exclaimed Mrs. Trapes, “you mean as that b’y’s off boxin’ again?”

  “Si, si—he go make-a-da-box-fight.”

  “Is he over at O’Rourke’s, Tony?” enquired Ravenslee, sitting upright.

  “I bet-a-my-life, yes—”

  “Oh, Mr. Geoffrey!” exclaimed Mrs. Trapes, clasping bony hands. “If they bring him home drunk like they did last time!”

  “They shan’t do that, Mrs. Trapes. Don’t worry, I’ll go and fetch him,” said Ravenslee, getting to his feet.

  “Fetch him? From O’Rourke’s? Are ye crazy? You’d get half-killed like as not. Oh, they’re a bad, ugly lot down there!”

  “I feel rather ugly myself,” said Ravenslee, looking around for the shabby hat; “anyway, I’m going to see.”

  “Why, then, if you’re goin’ t’ venture among that lot, you take this with ye, Mr. Geoffrey,” and she thrust the poker into his hand. “You’ll sure need it—ah, do now!” But Ravenslee laughed and set it aside. “You’d better take it, Mr. Geoffrey; fists is fists, but gimme a poker—every time! A poker ain’t t’ be sneezed at! What, goin’—an’ empty-‘anded? Mr. Geoffrey, I’m surprised at you. Think of Hermy!”

  “That’s just what I am doing.”

  “Well, s’posin’ they hurt you! What’ll Hermy do?”

  “You think she’d mind, then, though I’m—only a peanut man?”

  “Even a peanut man’s a feller creatur, ain’t he—an’ Hermy’s ‘eart is very tender an’—oh, shucks, Mr. Geoffrey, I guess you know she’d jest be crazy if you was hurt bad!”

  “Why, then,” said Ravenslee, smiling and taking up the battered hat, “I’ll take great care of myself—trust me!”

  “Then good-by, Mr. Geoffrey, good-by and—the good Lord go with you.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Trapes,” said Ravenslee and followed Tony out upon the stair. Upon one of the many landings the young Italian paused.

  “Me put-a-you wise, Geoff; you savvy where-a to find Spike, now me go back t’ my lil Pietro, yes. S’ long, pal, ‘n’ good-a luck!”

  Ravenslee hastened on down-stairs, returning neighbourly nods and greetings as he went, but staying for none, and so, crossing the court, turned into the avenue. On the corner he beheld the Spider, hard at work on his eternal chewing gum, cap drawn low and hands in pockets. Seeing Ravenslee, he nodded and lurched forward.

  “What’s doin’, Geoff?” he enquired.

  “I’m off to O’Rourke’s—coming?”

  “Not much! An’ say, ‘t ain’t worth your trouble—I ain’t fightin’. Nawthin’ but a lot o’ fifth-raters.”

  “I’m going over to fetch Spike.”

  “How much?” exclaimed the Spider, his square jaws immobile from sheer astonishment. “Say, you ain’t crazy, are ye—I mean you ain’t dippy or cracked in the dome, are ye? Because d’ Kid’s goin’ ten rounds with Young Alf, d’ East Side Wonder, t’night, see?”

  “Not if I can help it, Spider.”

  “Aw—come off, bo! D’ye think Bud’ll let him go?”

  “I shan’t ask Bud—or any one else.”

  “Meanin’ as you’ll walk right in on Bud’s tough bunch an’ cop out d’ Kid on y’r lonesome—eh?”

  “I shall try.”

  “Then you sure are crazy; if y’r dome ain’t cracked yet, it’s sure goin’ t’ be. Why, Bud ‘n’ his crowd’ll soak you good ‘n’ plenty ‘n’ chuck ye out again quicker’n ye went in. They will sure, bo—if you go—”

  “I’m wondering if you’ll come along and help?” said Ravenslee lazily.

  “Me? Not so’s you could notice it. I ain’t huntin’ that sort o’ trouble.”

  “Oh, well, if you think you’d—er—better not, I’ll go alone.”

  “What, yer goin’, are ye?”

  “Of course! You see, Spike is my friend; consequently his trouble is my trouble. Good night, Spider, and whatever else you do, be sure to—er—take good care of yourself!” And Ravenslee smiled and turned away; but he had not gone six paces before the Spider was at his elbow.

  “Say, bo,” said he, “I don’t like the way you smile, but you talk so soft an’ pretty, I guess I’ll jest have t’ come along t’ gather up what they leave of ye.”

  “Spider,” said Ravenslee, “shake!” The Spider obeyed, somewhat shamefacedly to be sure.

  “It looks like two domes bein’ cracked ‘stead o’ one, an’ all along o’ that fool-kid!” Having said which, he lurched on beside Ravenslee, chewing voraciously.

  “How you goin’ t’ work it?” he enquired suddenly.

  “I don’t know yet.”

  “Hully Chee! You’ve sure gotcher nerve along. There’s some o’ the toughest guys
in little Manhattan Village at O’Rourke’s dump t’night, keepin’ th’ ring an’ fair achin’ for trouble.”

  “We must dodge ‘em, Spider.”

  “S’pose we can’t?”

  “Then we must trust our luck, and I’ve got a hunch we shall get Spike away somehow before Mr. Flowers dopes him or makes him drunk; anyway we’ll try. The dressing rooms are behind the annex, aren’t they?”

  “Know the place, do ye?”

  “I’ve looked it over. We can get in behind the annex, can’t we?”

  “In?” repeated the Spider, smiling grimly. “Oh, we’ll get in all right; what gets my goat is how we’re goin’ t’ get out again. You sure are a bird for takin’ chances, Geoff.”

  “Life is made up of chances, Spider, and there are two kinds of men—those who take them joyfully and those who don’t.”

  “Well, say, you can scratch me on the joyful business. I’m th’ guy as only takes chances he’s paid t’ take.”

  “How much are you getting on this job, Spider?”

  “Oh—well—I mean—say, what’s th’ time, bo?”

  “Five minutes after eight—why?”

  “I guess d’ Kid’s in th’ ring, then. There’s a full card t’night, an’ he’s scheduled for eight sharp, so I reckon he’s fightin’ now—an’ good luck to him!” By this time they had reached that dark and quiet neighbourhood where stood O’Rourke’s saloon. But to-night the big annex glared with light, and the air about it was full of a dull, hoarse, insistent clamour that swelled all at once to a chorus of discordant shrieks and frenzied cries.

  “Ah!” quoth the Spider sagely, “hark to ‘em howl! That means some guy’s gettin’ his, alright. Listen to ‘em; they love t’ get blood for their entrance money, an’ they’re sure gettin’ it. Some one’s bein’ knocked out—come on!”

  It was a dark night, for there was no moon and the stars were hidden; thus, as Ravenslee followed the Spider, he found himself stumbling over the uneven ground of a vacant lot, a lonely place beyond which lay the distant river. At last they reached various outbuildings, looming up ugly and ungainly in the dimness.

  “Say, bo,” said the Spider, stopping suddenly at a small and narrow door, “you’d best wait here and lemme go first.”

  “No, we’ll go together.”

  “Right-o, only be ready to make a quick get-away!”

  So saying, the Spider opened the door and, closely followed by Ravenslee, stepped into a dimly-lit passage thick with the blue vapour of cigars and cigarettes. It was a long, narrow corridor, bare and uncarpeted, seeming to run the length of the building; on one hand was a row of dingy windows and on the other were several doors, from behind which came the sound of many voices that talked and sang and swore together, a very babel.

  At the end of this passage was yet another door which gave upon a small room that contained a rickety sofa, a chair, and a battered desk; a kerosene lamp suspended against the wall burned dimly, and it was into this chamber that the Spider ushered Ravenslee somewhat hastily; the Spider’s eyes were very bright, and he chewed rather more fiercely than usual.

  “Bo,” said he, “this place ain’t exactly a bed o’ roses for a strange guy like you. Y’ see, this is Bud’s own stampin’-ground, an’ the whole bunch is here t’night, and most of ‘em are heeled. Soapy an’ Bud always tote guns, I know. So I guess you’d better mark time here a bit while I chase around an’ locate th’ Kid. If any one asks what you’re doin’ around here, say as you come in with me. But, bo”—and here the Spider laid an impressive hand on Ravenslee’s arm—”if you should happen t’ see Bud, well, don’t stop to look twice but beat it—let it be th’ door or winder for yours—only—beat it!”

  “Oh, why?”

  “Well, I know Bud’s got it in fer you; I heard him say—oh, well, if his gun should go off—accidental-like, this place ain’t exactly Broadway or Fifth Av’noo, bo—see?”

  “I see!” nodded Ravenslee.

  “Hold on!” said Spider, and crossing to the window, he unlatched it stealthily and lifted it high, “if I ain’t back inside of ten minutes, bo, nip out through here and hike; wait for me at the lamp-post across the lot over there—it’ll be safer. D’ye get me?”

  “I do!” nodded Ravenslee.

  “I guess you’d be less of a fool if you was to get out now an’ wait—outside!” Spider suggested.

  Ravenslee shook his head.

  “I’ll wait here,” said he, “there are times when I can be as big a fool as the next, Spider, and this is one of them.”

  “That’s so!” nodded the Spider, and chewing viciously, he turned and was gone, to be hailed a few minutes later in uproarious greeting by many discordant voices which died slowly to a droning hum above which came sounds more distant, shouts and cheers from the auditorium.

  Left alone, Ravenslee looked about him, and then espied a newspaper that lay upon the desk. Idly taking it up, his gaze was attracted by these words, printed in large black letters:

  NOTORIOUS CRIMINAL RUN TO EARTH JACOB HEINE THE GUN-MAN ARRESTED IN JERSEY CITY

  Below in small type he read this:

  Jacob Heine, believed to be the perpetrator of several mysterious shooting affrays, and member of a dangerous West Side gang, was arrested to-day.

  The light being dim, Ravenslee drew closer to the lamp, and standing thus against the light, his face was in shadow—also his long figure was silhouetted upon the opposite wall, plain to be seen by any one opening the door. Suddenly, as he stood with head bent above the paper, this door opened suddenly, and M’Ginnis entered; he also held a paper, and now he spoke without troubling to lift his scowling gaze from the printed column he was scanning:

  “That you, Lefty? Here’s a hell of a mix-up—that dog-gone fool Heine’s got himself pinched—and in Jersey City too! I told him t’ stay around here till things was quiet! It’s goin’ t’ be a hell of a job t’ fix things for him over there—’t ain’t like N’ York. But we got t’ fix things for him or chance him squealing on th’ rest of us, but what beats me is—”

  M’Ginnis’s teeth clicked together, and the paper tore suddenly between his hands as, glancing up at last, he beheld two keen, grey eyes that watched him and a mouth, grim and close-lipped, that curled in the smile Spider didn’t like.

  For a long, tense moment they stood motionless, eye to eye, then, reaching behind him, M’Ginnis locked the door, and drawing out the key, thrust it into his pocket.

  “So—I got ye at last—have I?” said he slowly.

  “And I’ve got you,” said Ravenslee pleasantly; “we seem to have got each other, don’t we?”

  “See here, you,” said M’Ginnis, his massive shoulders squared, his big chin viciously outthrust, “you’re goin’ t’ leave Mulligan’s, see?”

  “Am I?” said Ravenslee, lounging upon a corner of the battered desk.

  “You sure are,” nodded M’Ginnis. “Hell’s Kitchen ain’t big enough for you an’ me, I guess; you’re goin’ because I say so, an’ you’re goin’ t’night!”

  “You surprise me!” said Ravenslee sleepily.

  “You’re goin’ t’ quit Hell’s Kitchen for good and—you ain’t comin’ back!”

  “You amaze me!” and Ravenslee yawned behind his hand.

  “An’ now you’re goin’ t’ listen why an’ wherefore—if you can keep awake a minute!”

  “I’ll try, Mr. Flowers, I’ll try.”

  M’Ginnis thrust clenched hands into his pockets and surveyed Ravenslee with scornful eyes—his lounging figure and stooping shoulders, his long, white hands and general listless air.

  “God!” he exclaimed, “that she should trouble t’ look twice at such a nancy-boy!” and he spat, loud and contemptuously.

  “Almost think you’re trying to be rude, Mr. Flowers.”

  “Aw—I couldn’t be, to a—thing like you! An’ see here—me name’s M’Ginnis!”

  “But then,” sighed Ravenslee, “I prefer to call you Flowers—a fair na
me for a foul thing—”

  M’Ginnis made a swift step forward and halted, hard-breathing and menacing.

  “How much?” he demanded.

  “Fair name for a very foul thing, Mr. Flowers,” repeated Ravenslee, glancing up at him from under slumberous, drooping lids—”anyway, Flowers you will remain!”

  As they stared again, eye to eye, M’Ginnis edged nearer and nearer, head thrust forward, until Ravenslee could see the cords that writhed and swelled in his big throat, and he hitched forward a languid shoulder. “Don’t come any nearer, Flowers,” said he, “and don’t stick out your jaw like that—don’t do it; I might be tempted to try to—er—hit it!”

  “What—you?” said M’Ginnis, and laughed hoarsely, while Ravenslee yawned again.

  “An’ now, Mr. Butt-in, if you’re still awake—listen here. I guess it’s about time you stopped foolin’ around Hermy Chesterton—an’ you’re goin’ t’ quit—see!” Ravenslee’s eyes flashed suddenly, then drooped as M’Ginnis continued: “So you’re goin’ t’ sit down right here, an’ you’re goin’ t’ write a nice little note of farewell, an’ you’re goin’ t’ tell her as you love her an’ leave her because I say so—see? Ah!” he cried, suddenly hoarse and anger-choked, “d’ ye think I’ll let Hermy look at a thing like you—do ye?—do ye?” and he waited. Ravenslee sat utterly still, and when at last he spoke his voice sounded even more gentle than before.

  “My good Flowers, there is just one thing you shall not do, and that is, speak her name in my hearing. You’re not fit to, and, Mr. Flowers, I’ll not permit it.”

  “Is that so?” snarled M’Ginnis, “well, then, listen some more. I know as you’re always hangin’ around her flat, and if Hermy don’t care about losing her good name—”

  Even as Ravenslee’s long arm shot out, M’Ginnis side-stepped the blow, and Ravenslee found himself staring into the muzzle of a revolver.

  “Ah—I thought so!” he breathed, and shrank away.

  “Kind of alters things, don’t it?” enquired M’Ginnis, hoarse and jeering. “Well, if you don’t want it to go off, sit down an’ write Hermy as pretty a little note as you can—no, shut that window first.”

  Silent and speechless, Ravenslee crossed to the window and drew down the sash, in doing which he noticed a dark something that crouched beneath the sill.