The Definite Object - Jeffery Farnol

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yellow boys I rustled up for you. They sure were some shoes!"

      "They were indeed, Spike."

      "Gee, but it must feel good t' be able t' buy whatever you want!" sighed Spike dreamily. "Some day I mean to have a wad big enough t' choke a cow—but I wish I had it right now!"

      "What would you do with it?"

      "Do with it! Well, say, first off I'd—I'd buy Hermy them roses—th' whole lot," and he pointed where, among the pushcarts drawn up against the curb, was one where roses bloomed, filling the air with their sweetness. "An' next she should—"

      "Then go and buy 'em, Spike!" and speaking, Mr. Ravenslee thrust a bill into Spike's hand.

      "Gee—a twenty-spot! Can I, Geoff?" he cried, his blue eyes shining. "Th' whole lot—on d' level?"

      "On the level."

      Spike started joyfully away, paused, turned, and came back with head a-droop.

      "I guess it can't be done, Geoff," he sighed.

      "Why not?"

      "Well, y' see, it ain't as it was my own money, really."

      "But it is!"

      "No, it ain't! I haven't earned it, Geoff, an' I ain't a guy as sponges on his pals, not much I ain't. Take your money, Geoff. When I buy Hermy anything it's goin' to be bought with money as I've earned."

      So Mr. Ravenslee thrust the bill back into his pocket and thereafter walked on, frowning and very silent, as one lost in perplexed thought. Wherefore, after more than one furtive glance at him, Spike addressed him with a note of diffidence in his voice.

      "You ain't sore with me, are you, Geoff?"

      "Sore with you?"

      "I mean, because I—I didn't take your money?"

      Here Mr. Ravenslee turned to glance down at Spike and clap a hand upon his shoulder.

      "No," he answered, "I'm not sore with you. And I think—yes, I think your sister is going to be proud of you one day."

      And now it was Spike's turn to grow thoughtful, while his companion, noting the flushed brow and the firm set of the boyish lips, frowned no longer.

      "Hello, there's Tony!" exclaimed Spike as they turned into Forty-second Street, "over there—behind the pushcart—th' guy with th' peanuts!" And he pointed where, from amid a throng of vehicles, a gaily painted barrow emerged, a barrow whereon were peanuts unbaked, baked, and baking as the shrill small whistle above its stove proclaimed to all and sundry. It was propelled by a slender, graceful, olive-skinned man, who, beholding Spike, flashed two rows of brilliant teeth and halted his barrow beside the curb.

      "How goes it, Tony?" questioned Spike, whereat the young Italian smiled, and thereafter sighed and shook his head.

      "Da beezeneez-a ver' good," he sighed, "da peanut-a sell-a all-a da time! But my lil' Pietro he sick, he no da same since his moder die-a, me no da same—have-a none of da luck—noding—nix!"

      "Hard cheese, Tony!" quoth Spike. "But say, have you seen th' Spider kickin' around?"

      "No, I ain't! But you tell-a da Signorina—"

      "Sure I will—"

      "My lil' Pietro he love-a da Signorina; me, I love-a her—she so good, so generosa, ah, yes!" And taking off his hat in one hand, Tony kissed the other and waved it gracefully in the air.

      "Right-o, Tony!" nodded Spike. "You can let it go at that. An' say—this is me friend Geoff."

      Tony gripped Mr. Ravenslee's hand and shook it.

      "You one o' da bunch—one o' da boys, hey? Good-a luck." So saying, Tony nodded, flashed his white teeth again, and seizing the handles of his barrow, trundled off his peanut oven, whistling soft and shrill.

      "Tony's only a guinney," Spike explained as they walked on again. "But he's white, Geoff—'n' say, he's a holy terror in a mix-up! Totes one o' them stiletto knives. I've seen him stab down into a glass full of water an' never spill a drop, which sure wants some doing."

      Evening was falling, and dismal Tenth Avenue was wrapping itself in shadow, a shadow made more manifest by small lights that burned dismally in small and dingy shops, a shadow, this, wherein moving shadows jostled with lounging shoulder or elbow. As they passed a certain dark entry where divers of these vague shadows lounged, a long arm was stretched thence, and a large hand gripped Spike's shoulder.

      "Why—hello, Spider," said he, halting. "What's doin'?"

      "Nawthin' much, Kid—only little M—'say, who's wid you?"

      "Oh, this is a friend o' mine—Geoff, dis is d' Spider!" explained Spike.

      Visualised in "the Spider" Ravenslee saw a tall, slender youth, very wide in the shoulder and prodigiously long of arm and leg, and who looked at him keen-eyed from beneath a wide cap brim, while his square jaws worked with untiring industry upon a wad of chewing gum.

      "Good evening!" said Ravenslee and held out his hand. The Spider ceased chewing for a moment, nodded, and turning to Spike, chewed fiercer than ever.

      "Where youse goin', Kid?" he enquired, masticating the while.

      "What was you goin' to tell me, Spider?" demanded Spike, a note of sudden anxiety in his voice.

      "Nawthin', Kid."

      "Aw—come off, Spider! What was it?"

      The Spider glanced up at the gloomy sky, glanced down at the dingy pavement, and finally beckoned Spike aside with a quick back-jerk of the head, and, stooping close, whispered something in his ear—something that caused the boy to start away with clenched hands and face of horror, something that seemed to trouble him beyond speech, for he stood a moment dumb and staring, then found utterance in a sudden, hoarse cry:

      "No—no! It ain't true—oh, my God!"

      And with the cry, Spike turned sharp about and, springing to a run, vanished into the shadows.

      "What's the matter?" demanded Ravenslee, turning on the Spider.

      "Matter?" repeated that youth, staring at him under his cap brim again; "well, say—I guess you'd better ask d' Kid."

      "Where's he gone?"

      "How do I know?"

      "It isn't—his sister, is it?"

      "Miss Hermione? Well, I guess not!" So saying, the Spider, chewing ferociously, turned and vanished down the dark entry with divers other shadows.

      For a moment Mr. Ravenslee stood where he was, staring uncertainly after him; presently however he went on toward Mulligan's, though very slowly, and with black brows creased in frowning perplexity.

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      It was in no very pleasant humour that Geoffrey Ravenslee began to climb the many stairs (that much-trodden highway) that led up to his new abode; he climbed them slowly, frowning in a dark perplexity, and wholly unconscious of the folk that jostled him or paused to stare after him as he went.

      But presently, and all at once, he became aware of one who climbed half a flight above him, and, glancing up, he saw a foot in a somewhat worn shoe, a shapely foot nevertheless, joined to a slender ankle which peeped and vanished alternately beneath a neat, well-brushed skirt that swayed to the vigorous action of the shapely limbs it covered. He was yet observing

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