A pallid-faced, willowy lad, this, of perhaps seventeen, who, sinking to his knees, threw up an arm across his face, then raised both hands above his head.
“Ah, don’t shoot, mister!” he gasped. “Oh, don’t shoot—I got me hands up!”
“Stand up!” said Ravenslee grimly, “up with you and shutter that window—you may have friends outside, and I’m taking no chances! Quick—shutter that window, I say.”
The lad struggled to his feet and, crossing to the window, fumbled the shutter into place, his ghastly face turning and turning toward the revolver that glittered in such deadly fashion in Mr. Ravenslee’s steady hand. At length, the shutters barred, the boy turned, and moistening dry lips, spoke hoarsely and with apparent effort.
“Oh, mister—don’t go for to—croak a guy as—as ain’t done nothing!”
“You broke into my house!”
“But I—haven’t took nothin’!”
“Because I happened to catch you!”
“But—but—oh, sir,” stammered the boy, taking off his cap and fumbling with it while he stared wide-eyed at the threatening revolver, “I—I ain’t a real thief—cross me heart and hope to die, I ain’t! Don’t croak me, sir!”
“But why in the world not?” enquired Mr. Ravenslee. “Alone and unaided I have captured a desperate criminal, a bloodthirsty villain—caught him in the very act of burgling a cabinet where I keep my cigars of price—and Mr. Brimberly’s, of course! Consequently to—er—croak you is my privilege as a citizen; it’s all quite just and proper—really, I ought to croak you, you know.”
“I—ain’t desprit, mister,” the boy pleaded, “I ain’t a reg’lar crook; dis is me first try-out—honest it is!”
“But then I prefer to regard you as a deep-dyed desperado—you must be quite—er—sixteen! Consequently it is my duty to croak you on the spot, or hand you over to the police—”
“No, no!” cried the boy, his tremulous hands reached out in a passion of supplication, “not d’ cops—don’t let th’ p’lice get me. Oh, I never took nothin’ from nobody—lemme go! Be a sport and let me beat it, please, sir!”
All Mr. Ravenslee’s chronic languor seemed to have returned as, leaning back in the deep-cushioned chair, he regarded this youthful malefactor with sleepy eyes, yet eyes that missed nothing of the boy’s quivering earnestness as he continued, breathlessly:
“Oh, I ain’t a real crook, I never done nothin’ like this before, an’ I never will again if—if you’ll only let me chase meself—”
“And now,” sighed Mr. Ravenslee, “I’ll trouble you for the ‘phone, yonder.”
“Are ye goin’ to—call in de cops?”
“That is my intention. Give me the ‘phone.”
“No!” cried the boy, and springing before the telephone he stood there, trembling but defiant.
“Give me that telephone!”
“Not much I won’t!”
“Then of course I must shoot you!”
The boy stood with head up-flung and fists tight-clenched; Mr. Ravenslee lounged in his chair with levelled pistol. So they fronted each other—but, all at once, with a sound between a choke and a groan, the lad covered his face.
“Go on!” he whispered hoarsely, “go on—what’s keepin’ you? If it’s the cops or croaking, I—I’d rather croak.”
“Why?”
“‘Cause if I was ever sent to—prison—it ‘ud break her heart, I guess.”
“Her heart?” said Mr. Ravenslee, and lowered the pistol.
“Me sister’s.”
“Ah—so you have a sister?” and Mr. Ravenslee sat up suddenly.
“Lots o’ guys has, but there ain’t a sister like mine in all N’ York—nor nowheres else.”
“Who are you? What’s your name?”
“Spike. Me real name’s Arthur, but Arthur sounds kinder soft an’ sissy; nobody don’t call me Arthur ‘cept her, an’ I don’t mind her.”
“And what’s her name?”
“Hermy—Hermione, sir.”
“Hermione—why, that’s Greek! It’s a very beautiful name!”
“Kind of fits her too!” nodded Spike, warming to his theme. “Hermy’s ace-high on the face and figure question! Why, there ain’t a swell dame on Fift’ Av’ner, nor nowheres else, got anything on Hermy as a looker!”
“And what of your father and mother?”
“Ain’t got none—don’t remember having none—don’t want none; Hermy’s good ‘nuff for me.”
“Good to you, is she?” enquired Mr. Ravenslee.
“Good t’ me!” cried Spike, “good? Well, say—when I think about it I—I gets watery in me lamps, kinder sloppy in me talk, an’ all mushy inside! Good t’ me? Well, you can just bet on that!”
“And,” enquired Mr. Ravenslee sleepily, “are you as good to her?”
Hereupon Spike turned his cap inside out and looked at it thoughtfully. “I—I dunno, mister.”
“Ah! perhaps you—make her cry, sometimes?”
Hereupon Spike began to pick at the lining of his cap and finally answered: “Sometimes, I guess.”
“Would she cry if she could see you now, I wonder?”
Hereupon Spike began to wring and twist his cap in nervous hands ere he answered: “I—I guess she might, perhaps.”
“She must love you a good deal.”
At this, Spike twisted his cap into a ball but spoke nothing; seeing which Mr. Ravenslee proceeded.
“You are luckier than I; there isn’t a soul in the world to do as much for me.”
Spike gulped audibly and, thereafter, sniffed.
“Now suppose,” said Mr. Ravenslee, “let us suppose she found out that the brother she loved so much was a—thief?”
Hereupon Spike unrolled his cap and proceeded to rub his eyes with it, and, when at last he spoke, it was in a voice broken by great sobs.
“Say—cut it out—cut it out! I never meant to—to do it. They got me soused—doped me, I think, else I’d never have done it. I ain’t good, but I ain’t so rotten bad as—what I seem. I ain’t no real crook, but if you wanter croak me for what I done—go ahead! Only don’t—don’t let d’ cops get me, ‘cause o’ Hermy. If you croak me, she’ll think I got it in a scrap, maybe; so if you wanter plug me, go ahead!”
“But what are you shivering for?”
“I—I’m just waitin’, sir,” answered Spike, closing his eyes, “I—I seen a guy shot once!”
Mr. Ravenslee sighed and nodded.
“After all,” said he, “I don’t think I’ll croak you,” and he slipped the revolver into his pocket while Spike watched him in sudden tense eagerness.
“What yer mean to do wi’ me?” he asked.
“That’s the question; what shall I do with you? Let me think.”
“Say,” cried the boy eagerly, “you don’t have to do no thinkin’—leave it all to me! It’s de winder for mine; I’ll chase meself quick—”
“No you don’t! Sit down—sit down, I say!”
Spike sighed and seated himself on the extreme edge of the chair his captor indicated.
“Won’t yer lemme beat it, sir?” he pleaded.
“No, some one else might catch you next time and have the pleasure of—er—croaking you or handing you over to the police—”
“There won’t be no next time, sir!” cried Spike eagerly. “I’ll never do it no more—I’ll cut d’ whole gang, I’ll give Bud M’Ginnis d’ throw-down—on d’ dead level I will, if you’ll only let me—”
“Who’s Bud M’Ginnis?”
“Say,” exclaimed the boy, staring, “don’t yer know that? Why, Bud’s d’ main squeeze with d’ gang, d’ whole cheese, he is—an’ he kind o’ thinks I’m d’ candy-kid ‘cause he’s stuck on me sister—”.
“Ah!” nodded Mr. Ravenslee, frowning a little, “and is she—er—stuck on him?”
“Not so as you could notice it, she ain’t! No, she can’t see Bud with a pair of opry-glasses, an’ he’s a dead game sport, too! Oh, there ain’t no flies on Bud, an’ nobody can lick him, either; but Hermy don’t cotton none, she hasn’t got no use for him, see? But say—” Spike rose tentatively and looked on his captor with eyes big and supplicating.