Spike’s outstretched, pleading hands were caught and held, and he was lifted to his feet.
“My Arthur-Spike, art going to the office this morning?”
“Sure I am; my eye ain’t—ain’t s’ bad, after all, is it? Anyway, I feel more like what a man should feel like now, an’—Gee! look at me doin’ the sissy tear-spoutin’ act! Oh, hell—lemme go an’ wash me face. ‘N’ say, if—if any o’ them—I mean those dolly office boys has anything t’ say, I’ll punch th’ sawdust out o’ them!”
CHAPTER XXVI
WHICH MAKES FURTHER MENTION OF A RING
Ravenslee, strolling in leisurely fashion along Tenth Avenue, became aware of a slender, pallid youth whose old-young face was familiar; a cigarette dangled from his pale, thin lips, and his slender hands were hidden in the pockets of his smartly tailored coat. On went Ravenslee, pausing now and then to glance idly into some shop window until, chancing to slip his fingers into a waistcoat pocket, he paused all at once and, drawing thence a ring wrought into the semblance of two clasped hands, drew it upon his finger. Now as he glanced at the ring, his eye gleamed and, smiling as one who has a sudden bright idea, he set off faster than before, striding on light and purposeful feet. But, as he turned a corner, he noticed that the pallid youth was still close behind, wherefore he halted before a shop window where, among other articles of diet, were cans of tomatoes neatly piled into a pyramid. At these he stared, waiting, and presently found the pallid youth at his elbow, who also stared upon the tomato pyramid with half-closed eyes and with smouldering cigarette pendent from thin-lipped mouth. And after they had stared awhile in silence, cheek by jowl, Ravenslee spoke in his pleasant, lazy voice:
“Judging by the labels these tomatoes are everything tomatoes possibly could be.”
“‘S right!” murmured the pale one imperturbably.
“Fond of tomatoes?” enquired Ravenslee.
“Aw!” answered his neighbour, “quit foolin’—talk sense!”
“Certainly! Why do you follow me, Soapy?”
Soapy’s eyes grew narrower, and the pendent cigarette stirred slightly.
“Know me, hey?” he enquired.
“Heaven forbid! ‘T was a bolt at a venture—a shot in the dark.”
“Talkin’—o’—shootin’,” said Soapy, grimly deliberate, “peanuts ain’t a healthy profesh around here—not fer your kind, it ain’t!”
“Oh, I don’t know,” answered Ravenslee, shaking his head gently at the tomatoes, “I’ve heard of professions even more unhealthy.”
“Aw—well—say what?”
“Well, talking of shooting—yours!”
Soapy’s narrow eyes gleamed with an added viciousness, his pale nostrils expanded, but the retort died upon his curling mouth, his puffy eyelids widened and widened as he stared at the ring on Ravenslee’s finger, and when he spoke his voice was strangely hoarse and eager.
“Say, sport—where’d you—get that—ring?”
“Why do you ask?”
“‘Cause I want to know, I guess.”
“Think you’ve seen it before?”
“Sport, I don’t think—I know. I seen it many a time. I’d know it in a million, sure.”
“Where did you see it before?”
“On M’Ginnis’s mitt. It useter belong t’ Bud.”
“Ah!” exclaimed Ravenslee, scowling down at the ring, “you make me wish more than ever that I had throttled him a little harder.”
“Where’d you get that ring, sport?” Soapy repeated.
“From Maggie Finlay’s father!”
Soapy turned away to stare at the tomato cans again.
“Meanin’?” he enquired at last, hoarser than before.
“That once upon a time it belonged to—her.”
“Sport,” said Soapy after an interval, still staring at the pyramid of cans, “I useter know her once, an’ I’ve jest nacherally took a fancy t’ that ring; if fifty dollars’ll buy it, they’re yours—right now.”
“It isn’t mine,” answered Ravenslee, still scowling at the ring which he had drawn from his finger. “I’m on my way to take it to—its owner. But if that person doesn’t want it, and I’m pretty sure—that person—won’t, you shall have it, I promise you. And now,” said he, pocketing the ring and turning, still scowling, on Soapy, “you are one of M’Ginnis’s gang, I fancy; anyway, if you see him you can tell him from me that if he gives me another chance I’ll surely kill him for the foul beast he is.”
“Sport,” said Soapy, “I guess the Spider’s right about you—anyway, you ain’t my meat. An’ as fer killin’ Bud— you sure ain’t goin’ t’ get th’ chance—not while I have the say-so. S’ long, sport!” and turning upon his heel, Soapy lounged away.
At Times Square Ravenslee entered the subway and, buying his ticket, was jostled by a boy, a freckled boy, round-headed and round of nose, who stared at him with a pair of round, impertinent eyes.
Lost in happy speculation he was duly borne to One Hundred and Thirtieth Street, where he boarded the ferry. Upon the boat he was again conscious of a round head that bobbed here and there amid the throng of passengers, but paid small heed as he leaned to watch the broad and noble river and the green New Jersey shore. At Fort Lee,
