“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
“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—”
