“Right you are. Let’s be pushing along, shall we?”
They turned up into the Strand, and through Trafalgar Square into Piccadilly. Piccadilly has a restful aspect in the small hours. Some men were cleaning the road with water from a long hose. The swishing of the torrent on the parched wood was musical.
Just beyond the gate of Hyde Park, to the right of the road, stands a cabman’s shelter. Conversation and emotion had made Lord Dreever thirsty. He suggested coffee as a suitable conclusion to the night’s revels.
“I often go in here when I’m up in town,” he said. “The cabbies don’t mind. They’re sportsmen.”
The shelter was nearly full when they opened the door. It was very warm inside. A cabman gets so much fresh air in the exercise of his professional duties that he is apt to avoid it in private life. The air was heavy with conflicting scents. Fried onions seemed to be having the best of the struggle for the moment, though plug tobacco competed gallantly. A keenly analytical nose might also have detected the presence of steak and coffee.
A dispute seemed to be in progress as they entered.
“You don’t wish you was in Russher,” said a voice.
“Yus, I do wish I was in Russher,” retorted a shrivelled mummy of a cabman who was blowing patiently at a saucerful of coffee.
“Why do you wish you was in Russher?” asked the interlocutor, introducing a Massa Bones and Massa Johnsing touch into the dialogue.
“Because you can wade over yer knees in bla-a-ad there,” said the mummy.
“In wot?”
“In bla-a-ad—ruddy bla-a-ad. That’s why I wish I wos in Russher.”
“Cheery cove that,” said Lord Dreever. “I say, can you give us some coffee?”
“I might try Russia after Japan,” said Jimmy meditatively.
The lethal liquid was brought. Conversation began again. Other experts gave their views on the internal affairs of Russia. Jimmy would have enjoyed it more if he had been less sleepy. His back was wedged comfortably against the wall of the shelter, and the heat of the room stole into his brain. The voices of the disputants grew fainter and fainter.
He had almost dozed off when a new voice cut through the murmur and woke him. It was a voice he knew, and the accent was a familiar accent.
“Gents, excuse me.”
He looked up. The mists of sleep shredded away. A ragged youth with a crop of fiery red hair was standing in the doorway, regarding the occupants of the shelter with a grin, half whimsical, half defiant.
Jimmy recognized him. It was Spike Mullins.
“Excuse me,” said Spike Mullins, “is dere any gent in dis bunch of professional beauts wants to give a poor orphan dat suffers from a painful toist something to drink? Gents is courteously requested not to speak all in a crowd.”
“Shet that blanky door,” said the mummy cabman sourly.
“And ’op it,” added his late opponent. “We don’t want none of your sort ’ere.”
“Den you ain’t my long-lost brudders, after all,” said the newcomer regretfully. “I t’ought youse didn’t look handsome enough for dat. Good night to youse, gents.”
“Shet that door, can’t yer, when I’m tellin’ yer!” said the mummy, with increased asperity.
Spike was reluctantly withdrawing when Jimmy rose.
“One moment,” he said.
Never in his life had Jimmy failed to stand by a friend in need. Spike was not, perhaps, exactly a friend, but even an acquaintance could rely on Jimmy when down in the world. And Spike was manifestly in that condition.
A look of surprise came into the Bowery boy’s face, followed by one of stolid woodenness. He took the sovereign which Jimmy held out to him with a muttered word of thanks, and shuffled out of the room.
“Can’t see what you wanted to give him anything for,” said Lord Dreever. “Chap’ll only spend it getting tight.”
“Oh, he reminded me of a man I used to know.”
“Did he? Barnum’s what-is-it, I should think,” said his lordship. “Shall we be moving?”
X
Jimmy Adopts a Lame Dog
A black figure detached itself from the blacker shadows and shuffled stealthily to where Jimmy stood on the doorstep.
“That you, Spike?” asked Jimmy, in a low voice.
“Dat’s right, boss.”
“Come on in.”
He led the way up to his rooms, switched on the electric light, and shut the door. Spike stood blinking at the sudden glare. He twirled his battered hat in his hands. His red hair shone fiercely.
Jimmy inspected him out of the corner of his eye, and came to the conclusion that the Mullins finances must be at a low ebb. Spike’s costume differed in several important details from that of the ordinary well-groomed man about town. There was nothing of the flaneur about the Bowery boy. His hat was of the soft black felt fashionable on the East Side of New York. It was in poor condition, and looked as if it had been up too late the night before. A black tailcoat, burst at the elbows and stained with mud, was tightly buttoned across his chest, this evidently with the idea of concealing the fact that he wore no shirt—an attempt which was not wholly successful. A pair of grey flannel trousers and boots, out of which two toes peeped coyly, completed the picture.
Even Spike himself seemed to be aware that there were points in his appearance which would have distressed the editor of the Tailor and Cutter.
“ ’Scuse these duds,” he said. “Me man’s bin an’ mislaid de trunk wit me best suit in. Dis is me number two.”
“Don’t mention it, Spike,” said Jimmy. “You look a perfect matinee idol. Have a drink?”
Spike’s eyes gleamed as he reached for the decanter. He took a seat.
“Cigar, Spike?”
“Sure. T’anks, boss.”
Jimmy lit his pipe. Spike, after a few genteel sips, threw off his restraint and finished the rest of his glass at a gulp.
“Try another?” suggested Jimmy.
Spike’s grin showed that the idea had been well received.
Jimmy sat and smoked in silence for a while. He was thinking the thing over. He felt like a detective who has found a
