“Can I?”
“Sure! Sometimes you can be so kind an’ nice I like you a whole lot!”
“Is that so?”
“You bet it is—honest Injun.”
“Arthur, if it’s that pie you want—”
“It ain’t!”
“Well, what is it?”
“How d’ ye know I want anything?”
“Oh, I just guess, maybe.”
“Well, say—if you could cop me one o’ Geoff’s cigarettes—one o’ them with gold letterin’ onto ‘em—”
“You mean—thieve you one!”
“Why, no, a cigarette ain’t thievin’. Say, now, dear old Trapesy, I’m jest dyin’ for a gasper!”
“Well, you go on dyin’, an’ I’ll set right here an’ watch how you do it.”
“If I was t’ die you’d be sorry for this, I reckon.”
“Anyway, I’d plant some flowers on you, my lad, an’ keep your lonely grave nice—”
“Huh!” sniffed Spike, “a lot o’ good that ‘ud do me when I was busy pushin’ up th’ daisies. It’s what I want now that matters.”
“An’ what you want now, Arthur, is a rod of iron—good ‘n’ heavy. Discipline’s your cryin’ need, an’ you’re sure goin’ t’ get it.”
“Oh? Where?”
“At college! My land, think of you at Yale or Harvard or C’lumbia—”
“Sure you can think; thinkin’ can’t cut no ice.”
“Anyway, you’re goin’ soon as you’re fit; Mr. Geoffrey says so.”
“Oh, Geoff’s batty—he’s talkin’ in his sleep. I ain’t goin’ t’ no college—Geoff’s got sappy in th’ bean—”
“Well, you tell him so.”
“Sure thing—you watch me!”
“No, I’ll get you somethin’ t’ eat—some milk an’—”
“Say, what about that punkin pie?”
“You sit right there an’ wait.”
“Chin-Chin!” nodded Spike, and watched her into the house.
No sooner was he alone than he was out of his chair and, descending the steps into the garden, sped gleefully away across lawns and along winding paths, following a haphazard course. But, as he wandered thus, he came to the stables and so to a large building beyond, where were many automobiles of various patterns and make; and here, very busy with brushes, sponge, and water, washing a certain car and making a prodigious splashing, was a figure there was no mistaking, and one whom Spike hailed in joyous surprise.
“Well, well, if it ain’t th’ old Spider! Gee, but I’m glad t’ see you! Say, old sport, I’m a invalid—pipe my bandages, will ye?”
“Huh!” grunted the Spider, without glancing up from the wheel he was washing.
“Say, old lad,” continued Spike, “I guess they told you how I put it all over Bud, eh?”
“Mph!” said the Spider, slopping the water about.
“Heard how I saved old Geoff from gettin’ snuffed out, didn’t yer?”
“Huh-umph!” growled the Spider.
“That’s sure some car, eh? Gee, but it’s good t’ see you again, anyway. How’d you come here, Spider?”
“U-huh!” said the Spider.
“Say,” exclaimed Spike, “quit makin’ them noises an’ say somethin’, can’t yer? If you can’t talk t’ a pal, I’m goin’.”
“Right-o, Kid!” said the Spider; “only see as you don’t go sheddin’ no more buttons around.”
“B-buttons!” stammered Spike. “What yer mean? What buttons?”
The Old Un, who happened to have been dozing in the limousine that stood in a shady corner, sat up suddenly and blinked.
“Why, I mean,” answered the Spider, wringing water from the sponge he held and speaking very deliberately, “I mean the button as you—left behind you—in th’ wood!”
Spike gasped and sat down weakly upon the running-board of a car, and the Old Un stole a furtive peep at him.
“So you—know—?”
“Sure I know—more ‘n I want t’ know about you, so—chase yourself out o’ here—beat it!”
Spike stared in mute amazement, then flushed painfully.
“You mean—you an’ me—ain’t goin’ t’ be pals no longer?” he asked wistfully.
“That’s what!” nodded the Spider, without lifting his scowling gaze from the sponge. “Kid, I ain’t no Gold-medal Sunday-school scholar nor I ain’t never won no prizes at any Purity League conference, but there’s some guys too rotten even f’r me!”
“But I—I—saved his life, didn’t I?”
“That ain’t nothin’ t’ blow about after what you did in that wood. Oh, wake up an’ see just how dirty an’ rotten you are!”
Spike rose and stood, his hands tight-clenched, and though he tried to frown, he couldn’t hide the pitiful twitching of his lips nor the quaver in his voice.
“I guess you mean you’re goin’ t’ give me th’ throw-down?”
“Well,” answered the Spider, scowling at the sponge in his hand, “there’s jest two or three things as I ain’t got no use for, an’ one of ‘em’s—murder!”
Hereupon Spike shrank away, and the Old Un, reaching out stealthily, opened the door of the limousine while the Spider fell to work again, splashing more than ever. Thus as Spike crept away with head a-droop, the Old Un, all unnoticed, stole after him, his old eyes very bright and birdlike, and, as he followed, keeping in the shade of hedge and tree as much as possible, he whispered a word to himself over and over again:
“Lorgorramighty!”
But Spike went on with dragging feet, ignorant that any one followed, lost in a sudden sense of shame such as he had never known before—a shame that was an agony: for though his bodily eyes were blinded with bitter tears, the eyes of his mind were opened wide at last, and he saw himself foul and dirty, even as the Spider had said. So on stumbling feet Spike reached a shady, grassy corner remote from all chance of observation and, throwing himself down there, he lay with his face hidden, wetting the grass with the tears of his abasement.
When at last he raised his head, he beheld a little old man leaning patiently against a tree near by and watching him with a pair of baleful eyes.
“Hello!” said Spike wearily. “Who are you?”
“I’m Fate, I am!” nodded the Old Un. “Persooin’ Fate, that’s me.”
“What yer here for, anyway?” enquired the lad, humble in his abasement.
“I’m here to persoo!”
“Say, now, what’s your game; what yer want?”
“I want you, me lad.”
“Well, say—beat it, please—I want t’ be alone.”
“Not much, me lad. I’m Fate, I am, an’ when Fate comes up agin murder, Fate ain’t t’ be shook off.”
“Murder!” gasped Spike. “Oh, my God! I—I ain’t—”
The lad sprang to his feet and was running on the instant, but turning to glance back, tripped over some obstacle and fell. Swaying he rose and stumbled on, but slower now by reason of the pain in his wounded arm. Thus, when at last he came out upon the road, the Old Un was still close behind him.
CHAPTER XLVI
IN WHICH GEOFFREY RAVENSLEE OBTAINS HIS OBJECT
Mrs. Trapes glanced sadly around her cosy housekeeper’s room and sighed regretfully; she was alone, and upon the table ready to hand lay her neat bonnet, her umbrella, and a pair of white cotton gloves, beholding which articles her lips set more resolutely, her bony arms folded themselves more tightly, and she nodded in grim determination.
“The labourer is worthy of his hire!” she sighed, apparently addressing the bonnet, “but, if so be the labourer ain’t worthy, why then, the sooner he quits—”
A sound of quick, light feet upon the stair and a voice that laughed gaily, a laugh so full of happiness that even Mrs. Trapes’s iron features relaxed, and her grim mouth curved in her rare smile. At that moment the door opened and Hermione appeared, a radiant Hermione who clasped Mrs. Trapes in her arms and tangled her up in her long motor veil and laughed again.
“Oh, Ann, such a day!” she exclaimed, laying aside her long dust-coat. “New York is a paradise—when you’re rich! No more bargain days and clawing matches over the remnant counter, Ann! Oh, it’s wonderful to be able to buy anything I want—anything! Think of it, Ann, isn’t it just a dream of joy? And I’ve shopped and shopped, and he was so dear and patient! I bought Arthur a complete outfit—”