beginning at least is bathed in sunshine.
Jimmy, regarding his lathered face in. the glass as he dressed for
dinner that night, marveled at the excellence of this best of all
possible worlds.
No doubts disturbed him. That the relations between Mr. McEachern
and himself offered a permanent bar to his prospects, he did not
believe. For the moment, he declined to consider the existence of
the ex-constable at all. In a world that contained Molly, there was
no room for other people. They were not in the picture. They did not
exist.
To him, musing contentedly over the goodness of life, there entered,
in the furtive manner habitual to that unreclaimed buccaneer, Spike
Mullins. It may have been that Jimmy read his own satisfaction and
happiness into the faces of others, but it certainly seemed to him
that there was a sort of restrained joyousness about Spike's
demeanor. The Bowery boy's shuffles on the carpet were almost a
dance. His face seemed to glow beneath his crimson hair.
'Well,' said Jimmy, 'and how goes the world with young Lord Fitz-
Mullins? Spike, have you ever been best man?
'What's dat, boss?'
'Best man at a wedding. Chap who stands by the bridegroom with a
hand on the scruff of his neck to see that he goes through with it.
Fellow who looks after everything, crowds the money on to the
minister at the end of the ceremony, and then goes off and mayries
the first bridesmaid, and lives happily ever.'
Spike shook his head.
'I ain't got no use for gittin' married, boss.'
'Spike, the misogynist! You wait, Spike. Some day, love will awake
in your heart, and you'll start writing poetry.'
'I'se not dat kind of mug, boss,' protested the Bowery boy. 'I ain't
got no use fer goils. It's a mutt's game.'
This was rank heresy. Jimmy laid down the razor from motives of
prudence, and proceeded to lighten Spike's reprehensible darkness.
'Spike, you're an ass,' he said. 'You don't know anything about it.
If you had any sense at all, you'd understand that the only thing
worth doing in life is to get married. You bone-headed bachelors
make me sick. Think what it would mean to you, having a wife. Think
of going out on a cold winter's night to crack a crib, knowing that
there would be a cup of hot soup waiting for you when you got back,
and your slippers all warmed and comfortable. And then she'd sit on
your knee, and you'd tell her how you shot the policeman, and you'd
examine the swag together--! Why, I can't imagine anything cozier.
Perhaps there would be little Spikes running about the house. Can't
you see them jumping with joy as you slid in through the window, and
told the great news? 'Fahzer's killed a pleeceman!' cry the tiny,
eager voices. Candy is served out all round in honor of the event.
Golden-haired little Jimmy Mullins, my god-son, gets a dime for
having thrown a stone at a plain-clothes detective that afternoon.
All is joy and wholesome revelry. Take my word for it, Spike,
there's nothing like domesticity.'
