with eyes very bright and wide.
“Not for all the gangs that ever ganged!” said he softly.
“Eh?” exclaimed the Spider, staring, “what’s yer game?”
“I’m going to try to buck this gang clean out of existence.”
“You are, eh?”
“I am.”
“Bo,” sighed the Spider, shaking his head, “you ain’t a ordinary fool—you’re a damned fool!”
“And you’re going to help me, Spider!”
“Not me, bo, not me—I’m only just an ordinary fool!”
“Well, we’ll let it go at that!” said Ravenslee, and lying back, he yawned again.
“Don’t do that, bo, don’t do that!” exclaimed the Spider. “I’m thinkin’ what you’ll look like after you’ve been floatin’ around in th’ river—a week, say! You’d best get out o’ Hell’s Kitchen, bo—don’t stop to ask where to, but— go there.”
“My Spider,” said Ravenslee, shaking his head, “in Hell’s Kitchen I should have to leave all that makes life worth while, so—I shall stay, of course, and chance the—er—river and things.”
“Well, I guess it’s your trouble, not mine.”
“But I want it to be yours too, Spider. You see, I’m counting on you to help me smash this gang.”
“Bo, it looks like you’re goin’ t’ do a hell of a lot o’ countin’—an’ then some more, before you count me in on this fool game. Say”—he paused to stare at Ravenslee, keen-eyed and with jaws clamped rigid—”you ain’t a fly-cop— one o’ these sleuthy gum-shoe men, are ye?”
“No.”
“Well, you ain’t one o’ these fool amateur guys doin’ the dare-devil detective act like you read about in th’ magazines, are ye?”
“No more than you are one of these dirty gang loafers you hear about around O’Rourke’s—and that’s why you’re going to help me root ‘em out.”
“Sufferin’ Pete!” sighed the Spider, “here I keep tellin’ you I ain’t on in this act, an’ here you keep on ringin’ me in frequent all the same.”
“Because you are a man, Spider Connolly, and white all through, and because to smash up this gang is going to be man’s work.”
“Well, it sure ain’t no job for Sophy the Satin-skinned Show-girl—nor yet for two nice, quiet little fellers like you an’ me.”
“We shan’t be quite alone, Spider.”
“That’s some comfortin’, anyway!”
“There will be Joe Madden, for one.”
“Joe Mad—” The Spider very nearly bolted his wad of chewing gum, then he rose and stood staring at Ravenslee, very round of eye. “So you know Joe Madden, the best all-round champion that ever happened, eh?”
“I box with him every day.”
“Hully Chee!” exclaimed the Spider, and chewed fervently in silent astonishment. Suddenly he lifted his head and stood as one that hearkens to distant sounds, and crossing stealthily to the window, climbed out.
“What’s the matter?”
“Mother Trapes, bo. She’s just rollin’ out o’ th’ feathers, an’ she’s quite enough for me—always has me fazed to a frazzle. If she caught me here it ‘ud be th’ gimlet eye for mine—so here’s where I fade away.”
“Anyway, come and have tea here with me to-night, Spider, unless you think I am—er—too dangerous to visit just now on account of M’Ginnis—”
“Dangerous?” repeated the Spider, scowling, “bo, when I get a call t’ free food with a guy like you, danger gets lost in th’ shuffle an’ forgotten—I’ll be there. Now here’s your bean cover—catch! S’ long!” And nodding, Spider promptly vanished down the fire escape.
CHAPTER XXIII
CHIEFLY CONCERNING A LETTER
“Sunday,” said Mrs. Trapes sententiously, “Sunday is a holy day t’ some folks an’ a holiday for other folks, but t’ folks like me an’ Hermy it sure ain’t no day of rest an’ gladness—like the hymn book says.”
“Isn’t it?” said Ravenslee, pushing away his coffee cup and glancing toward the loud-ticking clock upon the sideboard.
“It sure ain’t!” nodded Mrs. Trapes, quick to note the look. “Hermy an’ me ain’t much given to Sunday observance, Mr. Geoffrey. Y’ see, there’s always meals t’ be cooked an’ washin’ up t’ be done, an’ clo’es t’ be mended p’raps. I’ve darned many a ‘eartfelt prayer into a wore-out pair o’ stockin’s before now an’ offered up many a petition t’ the Throne o’ grace with my scrubbin’ brush sloshin’ over the floor. Anyway, Hermy ‘n’ me ain’t never had much time for church-goin’ or prayer meetin’s or mindin’ our souls in our best frocks an’ bonnets—no, sir! We jest have t’ get on with our work—sewin’ an’ cookin’ an’ washin’—mindin’ the welfare of other folks’ bodies. So while them as has time an’ inclination sing their praises t’ the Lord on their knees, Hermy an’ me take out our praises in work, an’ have t’ leave our souls t’ God an’—oh, well, I guess he’ll take care of ‘em all right—don’t y’ think?”
