“That’s where I’m different—I can!” said Ravenslee, opening and shutting his right hand convulsively. “Yes, I’ll hold him till his last kick—and after!”

“My God!” exclaimed the Spider softly, and, beholding that clutching right hand, he edged away.

“Where you goin’ t’ look fer him?” he enquired after a while.

“O’Rourke’s!”

“Why not try Raynor’s first?” and he nodded to a saloon on the adjacent corner.

“Because I’m not a fool.”

“Bo, I ain’t s’ sure o’ that! O’Rourke’s’ll be full o’ tough guys t’night; all th’ bunch’ll be there, an’ if Bud tips ‘em th’ say-so, they’ll snuff your light out quicker ‘n winkin’.”

“That wouldn’t be such a hardship.”

“Oh, so that’s it, hey? You got a kiss-me-an’-let-me-die sort o’ feelin’, hey? Some nice bit o’ stuff been turnin’ ye down, bo?”

“That’ll be about enough!” said Ravenslee, quick and fierce; and, meeting the flash of his eye, the Spider edged away again.

“Sufferin’ Mike!” said he, “you sure ain’t doin’ the affable chat stunt t’night!”

But Ravenslee strode along in silence, and the Spider, heeding the pale, set ferocity of his expression, grew troubled.

“Say,” said he at last, “this don’t happen t’ be th’ night as you’ve fixed up t’ smash th’ gang, does it?”

“No—only M’Ginnis.”

“S’posin’ he ain’t at O’Rourke’s?”

“He’ll be somewhere else.”

“Bo, if I was your ma, I should be prayin’ you don’t find Bud, yes, sir! An’ I should pray—dam’ hard!”

By this time they had reached Eleventh Avenue and were close upon the saloon when Ravenslee halted suddenly, for, beneath a lamp on the opposite sidewalk, he saw M’Ginnis in talk with two other men.

Drawing the neckerchief from his pocket, Ravenslee crossed over and tapped M’Ginnis on the arm, who, turning about, stared into a pallid face within a foot of his own.

“What th’ hell—” he began, but Ravenslee cut him short.

“You left this behind you,” said he, thrusting forward the neckerchief, “so I’ve brought it to twist around that foul throat of yours. Now, M’Ginnis—fight!”

Thrusting the neckerchief into his pocket, Ravenslee clenched his fists, and, saying no more, they closed and fought—not as men, but rather as brute beasts eager to maim and rend.

M’Ginnis’s companions, dumbfounded by the sudden ferocity of it all, stood awhile inactive, staring at those two forms that lurched and swayed, that strove and panted, grimly speechless. Then, closing in, they waited an opportunity to smite down M’Ginnis’s foe from behind. But the Spider was watching, and, before either of them could kick or strike, his fists thudded home—twice—hard blows aimed with scientific precision; after which, having dragged the fallen away from those fierce-trampling feet, he stood, quivering and tense, to watch that desperate encounter.

Once Ravenslee staggered back from a vicious flush-hit, and once M’Ginnis spun around to fall upon hands and knees; then they clenched, and coming to the ground together, fought there, rolling to and fro and hideously twisted together. But slowly Ravenslee’s clean living began to tell, and M’Ginnis, wriggling beneath a merciless grip, uttered inarticulate cries and groaned aloud. And now the deadly neckerchief was about his gasping throat and in his ears his conqueror’s fierce laugh—lost all at once in a roar of voices, a rush of trampling feet.

Wrenched at by fierce hands, smitten by unseen fists, Ravenslee was beaten down—was dimly aware of the Spider’s long legs bestriding him, and staggering up through a tempest of blows, hurled himself among his crowding assailants, felled one with his right, stopped another with his left, and, as the press broke to the mad fury of his onslaught, felt his hand wrenched from a man’s windpipe and heard a frantic voice that panted:

“Leg it, bo, leg it. Hully Chee! ain’t ye had enough?” So, mechanically, he set off at a run, with his arm still gripped by the Spider. “Leg it, bo—leg it good, or here’s where we snuff it sure! This way—round th’ corner; only keep goin’, bo, keep goin’.”

Very fleetly they ran with their pursuers close on their heels, across open lots, over fences, along tortuous alleys, until the rush and patter of the many feet died away, and the Spider, pulling up at the corner of a dismal, narrow street hard by the river, stood awhile to listen.

“Jiminy Christmas! but you’re some hot stuff at the swattin’ business—you’re a glutton, you are, bo. I been in one or two scraps meself, but I never seen a guy so hungry for—”

“Where are we?”

“Thirteenth an’ Twentieth.”

“Are we safe?”

“F’ th’ time, I reckon. But all Hell’s Kitchen’ll be out after us t’night, sure. So I guess it’s us for th’ immediate hike—”

“Us? Will they be after you, too?”

“Well,” said the Spider, smiling down grimly at his damaged, knuckles, “I guess yes! Hell’s Kitchen an’ Tenth Av’ner’s got t’ get along without me from now on, I reckon. They ain’t losin’ much, an’ I ain’t leavin’ much, but—”

“Why the devil had you got to follow me to-night?” demanded Ravenslee, scowling.

“Bo,” said the Spider as they went on again, “there’s times when my likin’ f’r you gets a pain; there’s times when y’r talk gives me th’ earache, an’ y’r lovin’ looks the willies. I ain’t lookin’ f’r no gratitood, nor yet a gold dinner-set an’ loominated address, but, not ownin’ a hide like a sole-leather Saratoga, I’ll jest get on me way—S’ long!”

“Where are you going?”

“I dunno, but—I’m goin’ there, right now.”

But as the Spider turned away, his hand was caught and gripped, and Ravenslee was smiling; his features looked a bit battered, but his smile was pleasant as ever.

“Forgive my cursed temper, Spider. I owe you my life again and—I ought to be grateful, I suppose. Forgive me, I’m—not quite myself to-night.”

“Sure thing!” said the Spider, returning his grasp, “but, bo, I’m kind o’ wonderin’ in me little mind what Bud’s feelin’ like! You sure swatted him good an’ heavy. I never seen cleaner footwork, an’ them left jabs o’ yours—”

“The question is, how do you feel, Spider, and what are you going to do?”

The pugilist scratched his rough chin. “Well, that’s what gets my goat; I dunno quite, bo. Y’ see, I shan’t be able t’ get no more fights here in the East now, not wi’ Bud ‘n’ his old man against me—y’ see, Bud’s old man’s about the biggest—”

“I wonder if you’d care to come with me?”

“Whaffor?”

“Well, for one thing, I need another chauffeur and—”

“A—what?” The Spider halted under a lamp-post to stare at Ravenslee a little anxiously. “Say, now, take a holt of ye’self an’ jest put that one over th’ plate again—you need a—what?”

“Another chauffeur.”

“Another shuvver—another? Bo, y’ didn’t happen t’ get a soak on th’ bean just now, did ye?”

“No.”

“Well, then, I guess you’re some shook up; what you want’s food, right now!”

“Why, yes, now you mention it, I’m devilish hungry,” agreed Ravenslee.

“Leave it t’ me, bo—I know a chewin’-joint close by—soup, joint, sweets, an’ coffee an’ only a quarter a throw—some feed, bo! Shin right along, I’ll—”

“No, you shall come home and dine with me.”

“Home?” repeated the Spider, halting to stare again; “you’re sure talkin’ ramblin’—”

“We can discuss the chauffeur’s job then—”

“Shuvver?” said the Spider uneasily. “But what’s a guy like you want with a shuvver?”

“Well, to drive my car—and—”

“Car?” said the Spider, his uneasiness growing, “got a car now, have ye, bo?”

“I rather think I’ve got six.”

“Sufferin’ Sam!” The Spider scratched his chin while his keen eyes roved over Ravenslee’s exterior apprehensively. “Say, bo, you quite sure none o’ th’ bunch booted you on th’ dome—eh?”

“Quite sure.”

“An’ yet you got six auter-mobiles. I say—you think so.”

“Now I think again, they’re seven with the newest racer.”

“Say, now, jest holt still a minute! Now, swaller twice, think dam’ hard, an’ tell me again! You got how many?”

“Seven!”

“Got anythin’ else?”

“Oh, yes, a few things.”

“Tell us jest one.”

“Well, a yacht.”

“Oh, a yacht?”

“A yacht.”

“‘S ‘nuff, bo, ‘s ‘nuff! But go on—go on, get it all off if you’ll feel better after. Anythin’ more?”

“Why, yes, about twenty or thirty houses and castles and palaces and things—”

“That settles it sure!” sighed the Spider. “You’re comin’ t’ see a doctor, that’s what! Your dome’s sure got bent in with a boot or somethin’.”

“No, Spider, I just happen to be born the son of a millionaire, that’s all.”

“Think o’ that, now!” nodded the Spider, “a millionaire now—how nice! An’ what do they call ye at home?”

“Geoffrey Ravenslee.”

“How much?” exclaimed the Spider, falling back a step. “The guy as went ten rounds with Dick Dunoon at th’ ‘National?’ The guy as won th’ Auter-mobile Race? Th’ guy as bought up Mulligan’s—you?”

“Why, yes. By the way, I sat in the front row and watched you lick Larry McKinnon at ‘Frisco; I was afraid you were going to recognise me, once or twice.”

“Then, you—you have got a yacht, th’ big one as lays off Twenty-third Street?”

“Also seven cars; that’s why I want you for a chauffeur.”

“Ho-ly Gee!” murmured the dazed Spider. “Well, say, you sure have got me goin’! A millionaire! A peanut cart! A yacht! Well, say, I—I guess it’s time I got on me way. S’ long!”

“No you don’t, my Spider; you’re coming home with me.”

“What—me? Not much I ain’t—no, sir! I ain’t no giddy gink t’ go dinin’ with millionaires in open-faced clo’es—not me!”

“But you’re coming to have dinner with that same peanut man who learned to respect you because you were a real, white man, Spider Connolly. And that’s another reason why I want you for my chauffeur.”

“But—say, I—I can’t shuv.”

“Joe shall teach you.”

“Joe? Y’ mean—Joe Madden?”

“He’ll be chauffeur number one—and there’s a cross-town car! Come on, Spider! Now—in with you!”

CHAPTER XXXI

IN WHICH SOAPY TAKES A HAND

O’Rourke’s was full: its long bar, shaped something like the letter J, supported many lounging arms and elbows; its burnished foot-rail was scraped by boots of many shapes and sizes; its heavy air, thick with cigarette smoke, hummed with many voices. In one corner, a remote corner where few ventured to penetrate, Soapy leaned, as pallid and noncommittal as ever, while Spike poured out to him the story of his woes.

“She drove me out, Soapy! She drove me away from her!” he repeated for the hundredth time. The boy was unnaturally flushed and bright of eye, and his voice was as shaky as the hand which fidgeted with his whisky glass; and the sense of his wrongs was great and growing greater with every sip.

“She told me t’ leave her! She drove me away from her—”

“So you come here, eh, Kid?” drawled Soapy, pendent cigarette smouldering. “You skinned over here t’ Bud f’ comfort, an’ you’ll sure get it, Kid—in a glass!”

“Bud’s always good t’ me—”

“‘S right, Kid, ‘s right, Bud’s an angel sure, though he ain’t got no wings yet. Oh, Bud’ll comfort ye—frequent, an’ by an’ by he’ll take ye back t’ Hermy good an’ soused; you can get your own back that ways—eh, Kid? It’ll sure make her sit up an’ take notice when she sees ye come in reelin’ an’ staggerin’—eh, Kid? An’ to-morrow you’ll be sick mebbe, an’ she’ll have ter nurse ye—oh, Bud’ll fix things fer ye, I guess.” Spike glowered and pushed his half-emptied glass further away.

“I ain’t goin’ home soused!” he muttered.

“No?” said Soapy, faintly surprised. “Bud’ll feel kind o’ hurt, won’t he?”

“I ain’t goin’ home soused—not for Bud nor nobody else!”

“Why, then, if I was you, Kid, I should beat it before Bud comes in.”

“I guess I will,” said Spike, rising.

But now was sudden uproar of voices in the street hard by, a running and trampling of feet, and, the swing doors opening, a group of men appeared, bearing among them a heavy burden; and coming to the quiet corner they laid M’Ginnis there. Battered, bloody, and torn he lay, his handsome features swollen and disfigured, his clothes dusty and dishevelled, while above him and around him men stooped and peered and whispered.

“Why, it’s—it’s—Bud!” stammered Spike, shrinking away from that inanimate form, “my God! It’s—Bud!”

“‘S right, Kid!” nodded Soapy imperturbably, hands in pockets and, though his voice sounded listless as ever, his eyes gleamed evilly, and the dangling cigarette quivered and stirred.

“Ain’t—dead, is he?” some one questioned.

“Dead—not much!” answered Soapy, “guess it’s goin’ to take more ‘n that t’ make Bud a stiff ‘un. Besides, Bud ain’t goin’ t’ die that way, no, not—that way, I reckon. Dead? Watch this!” So saying, he reached Spike’s half-emptied glass from the bar and, not troubling to stoop, poured the raw spirit down upon M’Ginnis’s pale, blood-smirched face.