“Bo!” said he, dexterously catching the toppling bird, glass case and all, for the second time, and addressing Ravenslee with it clasped to his heart, “bo,” he repeated, his eyes shining, “I guess Joe Madden, the greatest battler of ‘em all, is—Joe Madden still. I’ve always wanted t’ meet with him, an’ say—I wouldn’t ha’ missed him for a farm.”

“Is that so!” exclaimed Mrs. Trapes, entering the room at this moment with the tea-cloth, “well, now—you jest put ‘im down—you jest put that bird back again, Spider Connolly!”

“Yes, ma’am,” quoth the Spider, all abashed humility.

“What you doin’ with it, anyway?” she demanded, elbows jutted ominously; “it’s lost a eye, an’ a cat got it once an’ sp’iled it some, but I treasure it fer reasons o’ sentiment, an’ if you think you c’n steal it—”

“Not ‘im, ma’am, not ‘im!” piped the Old Un from the doorway, “it ain’t the pore lad’s fault. It’s Joe, blame it all on to Joe—Joe’s got a bad ‘eart, ma’am, a black, base-‘earted perisher is Joe—so no jam for Joe, ma’am, an’ only one slice o’ cake.”

Here Ravenslee hastened to explain, whereupon Mrs. Trapes’s grimness abated, and her bristling elbows subsided; and now, perceiving how the abashed Spider, meeting her eye, flushed, plucked at his cuffs, and shuffled his feet, she reached out to pat his broad and drooping shoulder.

“Mister Connolly,” said she, “for harsh words spoke in haste I craves now your pardon, an’ I craves it—humble. Am I forgive?”

The Spider, flushing redder than ever, rose to his feet, seized her hand, shook it, and muttered: “Sure!”

When the table was laid, the Old Un proposed, and was duly seconded, thirded, and fourthed, that Mrs. Trapes be elected into the chair to pour out the tea, which she proceeded to do forthwith, while the Old Un, seated at her right hand, kept a wary eye roving between jam dish and angel cake. And by reason of the unwonted graciousness of Mrs. Trapes, of Ravenslee’s tact and easy assurance, and the Old Un’s impish hilarity, all diffidence and restraint were banished, and good fellowship reigned supreme, though the Spider was interrupted in the midst of a story by the Old Un suddenly exclaiming:

“Keep your hand out o’ the jam, Joe!”

And Joe was later rendered speechless, hard-breathing, and indignant, by the Old Un turning to Mrs. Trapes with the shrill warning:

“Ma’am, Joe’s ‘ad two ‘elpin’s o’ cake an’ got ‘is ‘orrid eye on what remains!”

Nevertheless, the meal was in all ways a success, and Ravenslee was reaching for his pipe when Mrs. Trapes, summoned to the front door by a feverish knocking, presently came back followed by Tony, whose bright eyes looked wider than usual as he saluted the company.

“Hey, Geoff, me tell-a you piece-a da-noos!” he cried excitedly, “big-a piece-a da-noos. Da cops go-a pinch-a Bud-a M’Ginn’!”

“Bud? Bud?” stammered the Spider. “Have they pinched Bud? Is this the straight goods, Tony?”

“Sure—they gott-a heem this-a morn in Jersey City—’n’ say, he think-a eet a frame-up—he theenk-a Geoff set-a de cops for-a take heem.”

“The hell he does!” exclaimed the Spider, starting to his feet.

“So he send-a da word to Soapy,” continued Tony, his eyes rolling, “an’ now all-a da gang’s out layin’ for-a Geoff. So when Geoff go-a out on da street—bingo! Dey snuff hees light out—”

“Not much they won’t!” said the Spider, buttoning up his coat and turning to the door. “I’ll mighty soon fix this, I guess.”

“Do you think you can, Spider?” enquired Ravenslee. “If you’re going to have any trouble, don’t bother about—”

“Bo,” said the Spider, squaring his big jaw, “get onto this: here’s where I chip in with ye; from now on we’re in this game together, an’ I ain’t a guy as’ll lay down his hand till I’m called—an’ called good, see? You said it was goin’ t’ be a man’s work—by Jiminy Christmas, it looks like you’re right; anyway, I stand in with you, that’s sure—put it there, bo!”

“But,” said Ravenslee, as their hands gripped, “I don’t want you to take any chances on my account, or run any—”

“Fudge, bo, fudge! I ain’t takin’ no chances—”

“Well, I’m coming along to see you don’t!” said Ravenslee, reaching for his hat.

“Not on your life, bo; you’d queer th’ whole show. Y’ see, they’re a tough crowd an’ apt t’ act a bit hasty now an’ then; ‘sides, they might think you’re heeled, and they know I don’t never carry a gun—they all know me—”

“Still, I’m coming, Spider—”

“Y’ can’t, bo; Mrs. Trapes ain’t goin’ t’ let ye—look at her!”

“You never spoke a truer word since you drawed the vital air, Spider Connolly!” nodded Mrs. Trapes, hands on hips and elbows at the “engage.” “If Mr. Geoffrey stirs out this day, he’s jest gotter trample over my mangled remains, that’s all!”

Heeding the glitter in her eye and noting the inexorable jut of her elbows, Ravenslee sat down and went on filling his pipe.

“Y’ see, bo, I know as it wasn’t you as give Bud away, an’ the boys’ll listen t’ my say-so—you bet they will. So here’s where I ooze away. S’ long, all!”

The Old Un, having bolted the last handful of cake, got upon his legs and clutched the Spider’s coat in talon-like fingers.

“‘Old ‘ard, young feller, me lad!” he cried. “If there’s any chance of a scrap comin’ off—wot about me? Gimme me ‘at, Joe, an’ get yourn; if I don’t knock some on ‘em stone cold—call me a perishin’ ass!”

“Why, since you say so, old blood an’ bones,” said Joe, his mild eye brightening, “we will step along with the Spider a little way if the Guv’nor’ll excuse us?”

“Certainly, Joe,” nodded Ravenslee, “on condition that you do just as the Spider says.”

“You mean, sir?”

“No fighting, Joe—at least, not yet.”

“Trust me, sir! What ain’t to be—yet, is to be sometime, I ‘opes,” sighed Joe.

“Good-by, Guv, good-by!” croaked the Old Un, “if I don’t put some o’ they perishers in the ‘orspitals an’ the infirmaries—I ain’t the man I was—

“‘Oh, used am I to war’s alarms I ‘unger for the fray, Though beauty clasps me in ‘er arms The trumpet calls away.’”

So having made their adieux, the three took their departure; though once, despite Joe’s objurgations, the Old Un must needs come back to kiss Mrs. Trapes’s toil-worn hand with a flourish which left her voiceless and round of eye until the clatter of their feet had died away.

Then she closed the door and fixed Ravenslee with her stoniest stare.

“Mr. Geoffrey,” she demanded, “why did they call you ‘Guv’nor’, and wherefore ‘Sir’?”

Ravenslee, in the act of lighting his pipe, had paused for a suitable answer, when Tony, who had remained mute in a corner, stepped forward and spoke:

“Say, Geoff, I got-a bit-a more noos. Old-a Finlay-a want-a spik with-a you—”

“Old Finlay—with me?”

“Sure. Old-a Finlay-a go die-a ver’ queek, an’ he vant-a spik with-a you first.”

“Dying! Old Finlay dying?” questioned Ravenslee, rising.

“Sure! He go die-a ver’ queek.”

“I’ll come!”

“An’ I guess,” said Mrs. Trapes, “yes, I opine as I’ll come along wi’ ye, Mr. Geoffrey.”

Old Martin Finlay lay propped up by pillows, his great, gaunt, useless body seeming almost too large for the narrow bed wherein he lay, staring up great-eyed at Ravenslee—live eyes in a dead face.

“It’s dying I am, sorr,” said he faintly, “an’ it’s grateful is ould Martin for the docthers and medicine you’ve paid for. But it’s meself is beyand ‘em all—an’ it’s beyand ‘em I’m goin’ fast. She’s waitin’ for me—me little Maggie’s houlding out her little hand to me—she’s waitin’ for me—beyand, Holy Mary be praised! An’ she’s waited long enough, sorr, my little Maggie as I loved so while the harsh words burned upon me tongue—my little Maggie! I was bitter cruel to my little girl, but you’ve been kind to me, and, sorr, I thank ye. But,” continued the dying man, slowly and feebly, “it aren’t to thank yez as I wanted ye—but to give yez something in trust for Miss Hermy—ye see, sorr, I shant be here when she comes back to-night, I’ll be with—little Maggie when the hour strikes—my little Maggie! Norah, wife—give it to him.”

Silently Mrs. Finlay opened a drawer, and turning, placed in Ravenslee’s hand a heavy gold ring curiously wrought into the form of two hands clasping each other.

“It was my Maggie’s,” continued Martin, “an’ I guess she valleyed it a whole lot, sorr. I found it hid away with odds and ends as she treasured. But she don’t want it no more—she’s dead, ye see, sorr—I killed her—drowned, sorr—I drowned her. Cruel an’ hard I was—shut her out onto the streets, I did, and so—she died. But before the river took—oh, Blessed Mary—oh, Mother O’ God—pity! Before she went t’ heaven, Miss Hermy was good t’ her; Miss Hermy loved her and tried t’ comfort her—but only God could do that, I reckon—so she went t’ God. But Miss Hermy was kind when I wasn’t, so, sorr, it’s give her that ring ye will, plaze, an’ say as poor Martin died blessing her. An’ now it’s go I’ll ask ye, sorr, for God’s callin’ me to wipe away me tears an’ sorrers and bind up me broken heart—so lave me to God and—my little Maggie—”

Very softly Ravenslee followed Mrs. Trapes out of the room, but they had not reached the front door when they heard a glad cry and thereafter a woman’s sudden desolate sobbing.

“Go on, Mr. Geoffrey,” whispered Mrs. Trapes. “But I guess I’d better stay here a bit.”

“You mean—?”

“As poor Martin’s sure found his little girl again!”

CHAPTER XXV

HOW SPIKE MADE A CHOICE AND A PROMISE

Monday morning found Ravenslee knocking at the opposite door, which opening, disclosed Spike, but a very chastened and humble Spike, who blushed and drooped his head and shuffled with his feet and finally stammered:

“Hello, Geoff—I—I’m all alone, but you—you can come in if—if you care to?”

“I dropped in on my way down just to have a word with you, Spike.”

With dragging feet Spike led the way into the sitting room, where lay his breakfast, scarcely tasted.

“Sit down, Geoff, I—I want to apologise,” said the lad, toying nervously with his teaspoon. “I guess you think I’m a mean, low-down sort o’ guy, an’ you’re right, only I—I feel worse ‘n you think. An’ say, Geoff, if I—if I said anything th’ other night, I want you to—forget it, will you?”

“Why, of course, Spike.”

“Hermy’s forgiven me. I—I’ve promised to work hard an’ do what she wants.”

“I’m glad of that, Spike!”

“She came creepin’ into my room this mornin’ before she went, but—me thinkin’ she meant to give me a last call down—I pretended t’ be asleep, so she just sighed an’ went creepin’ out again an’ wrote me this,” and Spike drew a sheet of crumpled note paper from his pocket and handed it to Ravenslee, who read these words:

Boy dear, I love you so much that if you destroyed my love, I think you would destroy me too. Now I must leave you to go to my work, but you will go to yours, won’t you—for my sake and for your sake and because I love you so. Be good and strong and clean, and if you want some one to help you, go to your friend, Mr. Geoffrey. Good-by, dear—and remember your promise.

Ravenslee passed back the pencilled scrawl and Spike, bending his head low, read it through again.

“I guess I’ve just got t’ be good,” he murmured, “for her sake. Oh, Geoff,” he cried suddenly, “I’d die for her!”

“Better live for her, Spike, and be the honourable, clean man she wishes.”

“She sure thinks you’re some man, Geoff! I guess she’s—kind o’—fond of you.”

“That’s what I’ve come to talk about, Spike.”

“Are you—fond of her, Geoff?”

“Fond!” exclaimed Ravenslee, forgetting to drawl, “I’m so fond—I love her so much—I honour her so deeply that I want her for my wife.”

“Wife?” exclaimed Spike, starting to his feet, his eyes suddenly radiant, “d’ye mean you’ll marry her?”

“If she will honour me so far, Spike.”

“Marry her! You’ll marry her!” Spike repeated.

“As soon as she’ll let me!”

“Geoff—oh, Geoff,” exclaimed the boy, and choking, turned away.

“Won’t you congratulate me?”

“I can’t yet,” gasped Spike; “I can’t till I’ve told ye what a mean guy I’ve been.”

“What about?”

“About you—and Hermy. Bud said you meant t’ make her go the way—little Maggie Finlay went, an’—oh, Geoff, I—I kind of believed him.”

“Did you, Spike—that foul beast? But you don’t believe it any longer, and M’Ginnis is—only M’Ginnis, after all.”

“But I—I’ve got to tell you more,” said the lad miserably, as meeting Ravenslee’s eye with an effort, he went on feverishly. “The other night after—after Bud slipped me the—the stuff an’ I’d had a—a drink or two, he began askin’ all about you. At first I blocked and side-stepped all his questions, but he kep’ on at me, an’ at last I—I give you away, Geoff—” Here Spike paused breathlessly and cast an apprehensive glance toward his hearer, but finding him silent and serene as ever he repeated: