“Excellent, Brimberly!”
“As for these trousis, sir—”
“They seem rather superior garments, I’m afraid!” said Mr. Ravenslee, shaking his head.
“But you’ll notice as they’re very much wore round the ‘eels, sir.”
“They’ll do. Now the hat and muffler.”
“All ‘ere, sir—the ‘at’s got its brim broke, sir.”
“Couldn’t be better, Brimberly!” So saying, Mr. Ravenslee took up the clothes and turned toward the door. “Now I’ll trouble you to keep an eye on—er—young America here while I get into these.”
“Sir,” said Mr. Brimberly, turning his whiskers full upon Spike, who immediately fell to shuffling and wringing at his cap. “Sir—I will, certingly, sir.”
Now when the door had shut after his master, Mr. Brimberly raised eyes and hands to the ceiling and shook his head until his whiskers quivered. Quoth he: “Hall I arsks is—wot next!” Thereafter he lowered his eyes and regarded Spike as if he had been that basest of base minions—a boy in buttons. At last he deigned speech.
“And w’en did you come in, pray?”
“‘Bout a hour ago, sir,” answered Spike, dropping his cap in his embarrassment.
“Ah!” nodded Mr. Brimberly, “about a hour ago—ho! By appointment, I pre-zoom?”
“No, sir—by a winder.”
“A—wot?”
“A winder, sir.”
“A—winder? ‘Eavens and earth—a winder—ow? Where? Wot for?”
“Say, mister,” said Spike, breaking in upon Mr. Brimberly’s astounded questioning, “is he nutty?” And he jerked his thumb toward the door through which Mr. Ravenslee had gone.
“Nutty!” said Mr. Brimberly, staring.
“Yes—I mean is he batty? Has he got wheels?”
“W’eels?” said Mr. Brimberly, his eyes rounder than usual.
“Well, then, is he daffy?—off his trolley?”
“Off ‘is wot?” said Mr. Brimberly, fumbling for his whisker.
“Holy Gee!” exclaimed Spike, “can’t you understand English? Say, is your brother as smart as you?”
“The honly brother as ever I ‘ad was a infant as died and—but wot was you saying about a winder?”
“Nothin’!”
“Come, speak up, you young vagabone—” began Mr. Brimberly, his whiskers suddenly fierce and threatening, but just then, fortunately for Spike, the door swung, open, and Mr. Ravenslee entered.
And lo! what a change was here! The battered hat, the faded muffler and shabby clothes seemed only to show off all the hitherto hidden strength and vigour of the powerful limbs below; indeed it almost seemed that with his elegant garments he had laid aside his lassitude also and taken on a new air of resolution, for his eyes were sleepy no longer, and his every gesture was lithe and quick. So great was the change that Spike stared speechless, and Mr. Brimberly gaped with whiskers a-droop.
“Well, shall I do?” enquired Mr. Ravenslee, tightening his faded neckerchief.
“Do?” repeated Spike, “say—you look all to d’ mustard, Geoff! You—you look as if you could—do things, now!”
“Strangely enough, Spike, I rather feel that way too!” So saying, Mr. Ravenslee took a pipe from the rack, filled it with quick, energetic fingers, and proceeded to light it, watched in dumb amaze by the gaping Brimberly.
“Brimberly,” said he, “I shall probably return to-morrow.”
“Yes, sir,” said he faintly.
“Or the day after.”
“Yes, sir!”
“Or the day after.”
“Yes, sir!”
“Or the day after that; anyhow, I shall probably return. Should any one call—business or otherwise—tell ‘em to call again; say I’m out of town—you understand?”
“Out of town—certingly, sir.”
“Referring to—to the matter we talked of to-night, Brimberly—”
“Meaning the hobject, sir?”
“Precisely! Don’t trouble yourself about it.”
“No, sir?”
“No, Brimberly—I’m going to try and find one for myself.”
“Ho—very good, sir!”
“And now,” said the new Mr. Ravenslee, laying one white, ringless hand on Spike’s shoulder and pointing toward the open door with the other, “lead on—young Destiny!”
CHAPTER IV
TELLING HOW HE CAME TO HELL’S KITCHEN AT PEEP O’ DAY
It was past three o’clock and dawn was at hand as, by devious ways, Spike piloted his companion through that section of New York City which is known to the initiated as “Hell’s Kitchen.” By dismal streets they went, past silent, squalid houses and tall tenements looming grim and ghostly in the faint light; crossing broad avenues very silent and deserted at this hour, on and on until, dark and vague and mysterious, the great river flowed before them only to be lost again as they plunged into a gloomy court where tall buildings rose on every hand, huge and very silent, teeming with life—but life just now wrapped in that profound quietude of sleep which is so much akin to death. Into one of these tall tenement buildings, its ugliness rendered more ugly by the network of iron fire-escape ladders that writhed up the face of it, Spike led the way, first into a dark hallway and thence up many stairs that echoed to their light-treading feet—on and up, past dimly lit landings where were doors each of which shut in its own little world, a world distinct and separate wherein youth and age, good and evil, joy and misery, lived and moved and had their being; behind these dingy panels were smiling hope and black despair, blooming health and pallid sickness, and all those sins and virtues that go to make up the sum total of humanity.
Something of all this was in Geoffrey Ravenslee’s mind as he climbed the dingy, interminable stair behind Spike, who presently halted to get his wind and whisper:
“It ain’t much further now, Geoff, only another two flights and—” He stopped suddenly to listen, and from the landing above a sound reached them, a sound soft but unmistakable—a woman’s muffled sobbing.
Slowly, cautiously, they mounted the stair until in the dim light of a certain landing they beheld a slim figure bowed upon its knees in an agony of abasement before a scarred and dingy door. Even as they stared, the slender, girlish figure sobbed again, and, with a sudden, yearning gesture, lifted a face, pale in the half-light, and kissed that battered door; thereafter, weeping still, she rose to her feet and turned, but seeing Spike, stood very still all at once and with hands clasped tight together.
“Holy Gee!” exclaimed Spike beneath his breath; then, in a hoarse whisper: “Is that Maggie—Maggie Finlay?”
“Oh—is that you, Arthur?” she whispered back. “Arthur—oh, Arthur, I, I’m going away, but I couldn’t go without coming to—to kiss dear mother good-by—and now I’m here I daren’t knock for fear of—father. I’ve been up to your door and knocked, but Hermy’s away, I guess. Anyway, you—you’ll say I came to thank her and—kiss her for the last time, won’t you, Arthur?”
“Sure I will—but where ye goin’, Maggie?”
“A long way, Arthur! I don’t s’pose I shall ever—see this place any more—or you—so, Arthur, will you—kiss me good-by—just once?”
Spike hesitated, but she, quick and light-treading, came down to him and caught his hand and would have kissed that, but he snatched it away and, leaning forward, kissed her tear-stained cheek, and blushed thereafter despite the dark.
“Good-by, Arthur!” she whispered, “and thank you—and dear Hermy—oh, good-by!” So saying, she hurried on past Ravenslee, down the dark stairway, while Spike leaned over the balustrade to whisper:
“Good-by, Maggie—an’ good luck, Kid!” At this she paused to look up at him with great, sad eyes—a long, wistful look, then, speaking no more, hurried on down the stair—down, down into the shadows, and was gone.
“We used to go to school together, Geoff,” the boy explained a little self-consciously, “she never—kissed me before; she ain’t the kissin’ sort. I wonder why she did it to-night? I wonder—”