“Anyway, Bud, I—I haven’t got a sister,” said Soapy, juggling deftly with the hat. “But there’s one thing, Bud, th’ guy who gets actin’ Mr. Freshy with Hermy is sure goin’ to ante-up in kingdom come, if th’ Kid’s around.”
“You’re a dirty dog, Soapy, but you’ve got brains in your ugly dome, I guess you’re right about th’ Kid, an’ that gives me an almighty good idea!” And M’Ginnis walked on awhile, deep in thought; and ever as he went, so between those pale and puffy lids two malevolent eyes watched and watched him.
“No,” sighed Soapy at last, sliding a long, pale hand into the pocket of his smartly-tailored coat, “no, I ain’t got a sister, Bud, but there was little Maggie Finlay. I kind o’ used t’ think she was all t’ th’ harps an’ haloes. I used t’ kind o’ hope—but pshaw! she’s dead—ain’t she, Bud?”
“I guess so!” nodded M’Ginnis, yet deep in thought.
“An’ buried—ain’t she, Bud?”
“What th’ hell!” exclaimed Bud, turning to stare, “what’s bitin’ ye?”
“I’m wonderin’ ‘why’, an’ I’m likewise wonderin’ ‘who’, Bud. Maybe I’ll find out for sure some day. I’m—waitin’, Bud, waitin’. Goin’ around t’ O’Rourke’s, are ye? Oh, well, I guess I’ll hike along wid ye, Bud.”
CHAPTER XIX
IN WHICH THE POISON BEGINS TO WORK
Spike sat glowering at the newspaper, yet very conscious, none the less, that Hermione often turned to glance at him wistfully as she bustled to and fro; at last she spoke.
“Arthur, dear—why so gloomy?”
“I ain’t—I mean, I’m not.”
“You’re not sulking about anything?”
“No.”
“Then you’re sick.”
“I’m all right.”
“But you didn’t enjoy your dinner a little bit.”
“I—I wasn’t hungry, I guess,” said Spike, frowning down at the paper. But Hermione was beside him, her cool fingers caressing his curls.
“Boy, dear—what is it?”
“Say, Hermy, where’d you get them roses?” and he nodded to the flowers she had set among her shining hair.
“Oh, Mr. Geoffrey brought them.”
“Been here, has he?”
“Yes, he came in with Ann this morning—why?”
“Did he—did he stay long?”
“N-o, I don’t think so—why?”
“Comes round here pretty often, don’t he?”
“Why, you see, he’s your friend, dear, and we are very near neighbours.”
“Oh, I know all that, but—folks are beginning to—talk.”
Hermione’s smooth brows were wrinkled faintly and her caressing hand had fallen away.
“To talk!” she repeated, “you mean about—me?”
“Yes!” nodded Spike, avoiding her eyes, “about you and—him!”
“Well—let them!” she answered gently, “you and Ann are all I care about, so let them talk.”
“But I—I don’t like folks t’ talk about my sister, an’ it’s got t’ stop. You got t’ tell him so, or else I will. What’s he got t’ go buying ye flowers for, anyway?”
Hermione’s black brows knit in a sudden frown. “Arthur, don’t be silly!”
“Oh, I know you think I’m only a kid—but I ain’t—I’m not. If you can’t take care of—of yourself, I must and—”
“Arthur—stop!”
“Well, but what’s he always crawlin’ around here for?”
“He doesn’t crawl—he couldn’t,” she cried in sudden anger; then in gentler tones, “I don’t think you’d better say any more, or maybe I shall grow angry. If you have grown to think so—so badly of him, remember I’m your sister.”
“But you’re a girl, an’ he’s a man an’—”
“Stop it!” Hermione stamped her foot, and meeting her flashing glance, Spike wilted and—stopped it. So, while he glowered at the paper again, Hermione put away the dinner things, making more clatter about it than was usual, and turning now and then to glance at him from under her long lashes.
“Where did you meet M’Ginnis as you came home, Arthur?”
“At the corner of—say, who told you I met him?”
“You did.”
“I never said a word about meetin’ him.”
“No, but you’ve been telling me what he told you. Only M’Ginnis could be vile enough to dare say such things about me. Oh, Arthur, for shame—how can you listen to that brute beast—for shame!”
Now, meeting the virginal purity of those eyes, Spike felt his cheeks burn, and he wriggled in his chair.
“Bud only told me Geoff had been—been here,” he stammered, “and I guess it was the truth—I—I mean—”
“Oh, boy, for shame!” and turning about, she swept from the room, her head carried very high, leaving him crouched in his chair, his nervous fingers twisting and turning a small box in his pocket—the box that held the forgotten hair-comb. He was still sitting miserably thus when he heard a knock on the outer door and a moment later a woman’s voice, querulous and high-pitched.
“Oh, Miss Hermy, my Martin’s very bad t’night, an’ I got t’ go out, an’ I can’t leave him alone; would ye mind comin’ down an’ sittin’ with him for a bit?”
“Why, of course I will.”
“Y’ see, since he had th’ stroke, he’s sorrered for our little Maggie—he was hard on her, y’ see, an’ since she—she died—he’s been grievin’ for her. Had himself laid in her little room—seemed to comfort him somehow. But to-day, when he heard we had to leave because th’ rent was rose, it nigh broke his poor heart. An’ I got to go out, an’ I can’t leave him alone, so—if y’ wouldn’t mind, Miss Hermy—”
“Just a moment—I’ll come right now.” As she spoke, Hermione reentered the kitchen, untying her apron as she came. Spike sat watching, waiting, yearning for a word, but without even a glance Hermione turned and left him. When he was alone, he started to his feet and tearing the box from his pocket dashed it fiercely to the floor; then as suddenly picked it up, and approaching the open window, drew back his hand to hurl it out and so stood, staring into the face that had risen to view beyond the window ledge, a round face with two very round eyes, a round button of a nose, and a wide mouth just now up-curving in a grin.
“Hey, you, Larry, what you hangin’ around here for?” demanded Spike, slipping the box into his pocket again. “What you doin’ on our fire escape, hey?”
“Brought back yer roof!” replied the lad.
“Well, where is it?”
“Here it is.” And climbing astride the window sill, Larry handed in the jaunty straw.
“Where’d you find it?”
“Bud give it me, ‘n’ say—”
“All right,” nodded Spike, dusting the straw tenderly with a handkerchief. “Now git, I wanter be alone.”
“But, say, Kid, Bud says I was ter say as he’s sorry for what he said, ‘n’ say, he says you’d better be gettin’ over t’ O’Rourke’s, ‘n’ say—”
“I ain’t comin’!”
“But say, you’re t’ fight Young Alf, ‘n’ say—”
“I ain’t comin’!”
“But say, dere’s a lot of our money on ye—I got two plunks meself, ‘n’ say, you just gotter fight anyway. Bud says so—”
“I can’t help what Bud says; I ain’t comin’.”
“Not comin’!” exclaimed Larry, his eyes rounder than ever.
“No!”
Larry’s wide mouth curved in a slow grin, and he nodded his close-cropped head; said he:
“Say, Kiddo, you know Young Alf’s a punishin’ fighter, I guess; you know as nobody’s never stopped him yet, don’t yer; you know as you’re givin’ him six pounds—say, you ain’t—scared, are ye?”
“Scared?” repeated Spike, frowning. “Do I look like I was scared? You know there ain’t any guy I’m scared of—but I promised Hermy—”
“Pip-pip!” grinned Larry. “Say, if you don’t turn up t’night, d’ye know what d’ bunch’ll say? Dey’ll say you’re a—quitter!”
“Well, don’t you say it, that’s all!” said Spike, laying aside his hat and clenching his fists.