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 name 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.
“An’ now,” said M’Ginnis, leaning against a corner of the desk, “sit down here, nice an’ close, an’ write that letter—there’s pen an’ ink an’ paper—an’ quick about it or by—”
M’Ginnis sprang up and turned as the glass of the window splintered to fragments, and, almost with the crash, Ravenslee leapt—a fierce twist, a vicious wrench, and the deadly weapon had changed hands.
“Lucky it didn’t go off,” said Ravenslee, smiling grimly at the revolver he held, “others might have heard, and, Mr. Flowers, I want to be alone with you just a little longer. Of course, I might shoot you for the murderous beast you are, or I might walk you over to the nearest police depot for the crook I think you are—but—oh, well, of late I’ve been yearning to get my hands on you and so”—Ravenslee turned and pitched the revolver through the broken window. But, almost as the weapon left his hand, M’Ginnis was upon him, and, reeling from the blow, Ravenslee staggered blindly across the room, till stayed by the wall, and sank there, crouched and groaning, his face hidden in his hands.
