Intrusion of Jimmy Page 17

your keen sense of honor compels you to pay the twenty pounds, all

  right. You mentioned to-morrow? That will suit me. So, we'll let it

  go it at that."

  He walked off, leaving Lord Dreever filled with the comfortable glow

  that comes to the weak man who for once has displayed determination.

  He felt that he must not go back from his dignified standpoint. That

  money would have to be paid, and on the morrow. Hargate was the sort

  of man who could, and would, make it exceedingly unpleasant for him

  if he failed. A debt of honor was not a thing to be trifled with.

  But he felt quite safe. He knew he could get the money when he

  pleased. It showed, he reflected philosophically, how out of evil

  cometh good. His greater misfortune, the engagement, would, as it

  were, neutralize the less, for it was ridiculous to suppose that Sir

  Thomas, having seen his ends accomplished, and being presumably in a

  spacious mood in consequence, would not be amenable to a request for

  a mere twenty pounds.

  He went on into the hall. He felt strong and capable. He had shown

  Hargate the stuff there was in him. He was Spennie Dreever, the man

  of blood and iron, the man with whom it were best not to trifle. But

  it was really, come to think of it, uncommonly lucky that he was

  engaged to Molly. He recoiled from the idea of attempting,

  unfortified by that fact, to extract twenty pounds from Sir Thomas

  for a card-debt.

  In the hall, he met Saunders.

  "I have been looking for your lordship," said the butler.

  "Eh? Well, here I am."

  "Just so, your lordship. Miss McEachern entrusted me with this note

  to deliver to you in the event of her not being h'able to see you

  before dinner personally, your lordship."

  "Right ho. Thanks."

  He started to go upstairs, opening the envelope as he went. What

  could the girl be writing to him about? Surely, she wasn't going to

  start sending him love-letters, or any of that frightful rot? Deuced

  difficult it would be to play up to that sort of thing!

  He stopped on the first landing to read the note, and at the opening

  line his jaw fell. The envelope fluttered to the ground.

  "Oh, my sainted aunt!" he moaned, clutching at the banisters. "Now,

  I am in the soup!"

  CHAPTER XXI

  LOATHSOME GIFTS

  There are doubtless men so constructed that they can find themselves

  accepted suitors without any particular whirl of emotion. King

  Solomon probably belonged to this class, and even Henry the Eighth

  must have become a trifle blase in time. But, to the average man,

  the sensations are complex and overwhelming. A certain stunned

  feeling is perhaps predominant. Blended with this is relief, the

  relief of a general who has brought a difficult campaign to a

  successful end, or of a member of a forlorn hope who finds that the

  danger is over and that he is still alive. To this must be added a

  newly born sense of magnificence. Our suspicion that we were

  something rather out of the ordinary run of men is suddenly

  confirmed. Our bosom heaves with complacency, and the world has

  nothing more to offer.

  With some, there is an alloy of apprehension in the metal of their

  happiness, and the strain of an engagement sometimes brings with it

  even a faint shadow of regret. "She makes me buy things," one swain,

  in the third quarter of his engagement, was overheard to moan to a

  friend. "Two new ties only yesterday." He seemed to be debating

  with himself whether human nature could stand the strain.

  But, whatever tragedies may cloud the end of the period, its

  beginning at least is bathed in sunshine.

  Jimmy, regarding his lathered face in. the glass as he dressed for

  dinner that night, marveled at the excellence of this best of all

  possible worlds.

  No doubts disturbed him. That the relations between Mr. McEachern

  and himself offered a permanent bar to his prospects, he did not

  believe. For the moment, he declined to consider the existence of

  the ex-constable at all. In a world that contained Molly, there was

  no room for other people. They were not in the picture. They did not

  exist.

  To him, musing contentedly over the goodness of life, there entered,

  in the furtive manner habitual to that unreclaimed buccaneer, Spike

  Mullins. It may have been that Jimmy read his own satisfaction and

  happiness into the faces of others, but it certainly seemed to him

  that there was a sort of restrained joyousness about Spike's

  demeanor. The Bowery boy's shuffles on the carpet were almost a

  dance. His face seemed to glow beneath his crimson hair.

  "Well," said Jimmy, "and how goes the world with young Lord Fitz-

  Mullins? Spike, have you ever been best man?

  "What's dat, boss?"

  "Best man at a wedding. Chap who stands by the bridegroom with a

  hand on the scruff of his neck to see that he goes through with it.

  Fellow who looks after everything, crowds the money on to the

  minister at the end of the ceremony, and then goes off and mayries

  the first bridesmaid, and lives happily ever."

  Spike shook his head.

  "I ain't got no use for gittin' married, boss."

  "Spike, the misogynist! You wait, Spike. Some day, love will awake

  in your heart, and you'll start writing poetry."

  "I'se not dat kind of mug, boss," protested the Bowery boy. "I ain't

  got no use fer goils. It's a mutt's game."

  This was rank heresy. Jimmy laid down the razor from motives of

  prudence, and proceeded to lighten Spike's reprehensible darkness.

  "Spike, you're an ass," he said. "You don't know anything about it.

  If you had any sense at all, you'd understand that the only thing

  worth doing in life is to get married. You bone-headed bachelors

  make me sick. Think what it would mean to you, having a wife. Think

  of going out on a cold winter's night to crack a crib, knowing that

  there would be a cup of hot soup waiting for you when you got back,

  and your slippers all warmed and comfortable. And then she'd sit on

  your knee, and you'd tell her how you shot the policeman, and you'd

  examine the swag together--! Why, I can't imagine anything cozier.

  Perhaps there would be little Spikes running about the house. Can't

  you see them jumping with joy as you slid in through the window, and

  told the great news? 'Fahzer's killed a pleeceman!' cry the tiny,

  eager voices. Candy is served out all round in honor of the event.

  Golden-haired little Jimmy Mullins, my god-son, gets a dime for

  having thrown a stone at a plain-clothes detective that afternoon.

  All is joy and wholesome revelry. Take my word for it, Spike,

  there's nothing like domesticity."

  "Dere was a goil once," said Spike, meditatively. "Only, I was never

  her steady. She married a cop."

  "She wasn't worthy of you, Spike," said Jimmy, sympathetically. "A

  girl capable of going to the bad like that would never have done for

  you. You must pick some nice, sympathetic girl with a romantic

  admiration for your line of business. Meanwhile, let me finish

  shaving, or I shall
be late for dinner. Great doings on to-night,

  Spike."

  Spike became animated.

  "Sure, boss I Dat's just what--"

  "If you could collect all the blue blood that will be under this

  roof to-night, Spike, into one vat, you'd be able to start a dyeing-

  works. Don't try, though. They mightn't like it. By the way, have

  you seen anything more--of course, you have. What I mean is, have

  you talked at all with that valet man, the one you think is a

  detective?"

  "Why, boss, dat's just--"

  "I hope for his own sake he's a better performer than my old friend,

  Galer. That man is getting on my nerves, Spike. He pursues me like a

  smell-dog. I expect he's lurking out in the passage now. Did you see

  him?"

  "Did I! Boss! Why--"

  Jimmy inspected Spike gravely.

  "Spike," he said, "there's something on your mind. You're trying to

  say something. What is it? Out with it."

  Spike's excitement vented itself in a rush of words.

  "Gee, boss! There's bin doin's to-night fer fair, lie coco's still

  buzzin'. Sure t'ing! Why, say, when I was to Sir Tummas' dressin'-

  room dis afternoon--"

  "What!"

  "Surest t'ing you know. Just before de storm come on, when it was

  all as dark as could be. Well, I was--"

  Jimmy interrupted.

  "In Sir Thomas's dressing-room! What the--"

  Spike looked somewhat embarrassed. He grinned apologetically, and

  shuffled his feet.

  "I've got dem, boss!" he said, with a smirk.

  "Got them? Got what?"

  "Dese."

  Spike plunged a hand in a pocket, and drew forth in a glittering

  mass Lady Julia Blunt's rope of diamonds.

  CHAPTER XXII

  TWO OF A TRADE DISAGREE

  "One hundred t'ousand plunks," murmured Spike, gazing lovingly at

  them. "I says to myself, de boss ain't got no time to be gittin'

  after dem himself. He's too busy dese days wit' jollyin' along de

  swells. So, it's up to me, I says, 'cos de boss'll be tickled to

  deat', all right, all right, if we can git away wit' dem. So, I--"

  Jimmy gave tongue with an energy that amazed his faithful follower.

  The nightmare horror of the situation had affected him much as a

  sudden blow in the parts about the waistcoat might have done. But,

  now, as Spike would have said, he caught up with his breath. The

  smirk faded slowly from the other's face as he listened. Not even in

  the Bowery, full as it was of candid friends, had he listened to

  such a trenchant summing-up of his mental and moral deficiencies.

  "Boss!" he protested.

  "That's just a sketchy outline," said Jimmy, pausing for breath. "I

  can't do you justice impromptu like this--you're too vast and

  overwhelming."

  "But, boss, what's eatin' you? Ain't youse tickled?"

  "Tickled!" Jimmy sawed the air. "Tickled! You lunatic! Can't you see

  what you've done?"

  "I've got dem," said Spike, whose mind was not readily receptive of

  new ideas. It seemed to him that Jimmy missed the main point.

  "Didn't I tell you there was nothing doing when you wanted to take

  those things the other day?"

  Spike's face cleared. As he had suspected, Jimmy had missed the

  point.

  "Why, say, boss, yes. Sure! But dose was little, dinky t'ings. Of

  course, youse wouldn't stand fer swipin' chicken-feed like dem. But

  dese is different. Dese di'monds is boids. It's one hundred t'ousand

  plunks fer dese."

  "Spike," said Jimmy with painful calm.

  "Huh?"

  "Will you listen for a moment?"

  "Sure."

  "I know it's practically hopeless. To get an idea into your head,

  one wants a proper outfit--drills, blasting-powder, and so on. But

  there's just a chance, perhaps, if I talk slowly. Has it occurred to

  you, Spike, my bonny, blue-eyed Spike, that every other man, more or

  less, in this stately home of England, is a detective who has

  probably received instructions to watch you like a lynx? Do you

  imagine that your blameless past is a sufficient safeguard? I

  suppose you think that these detectives will say to themselves,

  'Now, whom shall we suspect? We must leave out Spike Mullins, of

  course, because he naturally wouldn't dream of doing such a thing.

  It can't be dear old Spike who's got the stuff.'"

  "But, boss," interposed Spike brightly, "I ain't! Dat's right. I

  ain't got it. Youse has!"

  Jimmy looked at the speaker with admiration. After all, there was a

  breezy delirium about Spike's methods of thought that was rather

  stimulating when you got used to it. The worst of it was that it did

  not fit in with practical, everyday life. Under different

  conditions--say, during convivial evenings at Bloomingdale--he could

  imagine the Bowery boy being a charming companion. How pleasantly,

  for instance, such remarks as that last would while away the

  monotony of a padded cell!

  "But, laddie," he said with steely affection, "listen once more.

  Reflect! Ponder! Does it not seep into your consciousness that we

  are, as it were, subtly connected in this house in the minds of

  certain bad persons? Are we not imagined by Mr. McEachern, for

  instance, to be working hand-in-hand like brothers? Do you fancy

  that Mr. McEachern, chatting with his tame sleuth-hound over their

  cigars, will have been reticent on this point? I think not. How do

  you propose to baffle that gentlemanly sleuth, Spike, who, I may

  mention once again, has rarely moved more than two yards away from

  me since his arrival?"

  An involuntary chuckle escaped Spike.

  "Sure, boss, dat's all right."

  "All right, is it? Well, well! What makes you think it is all

  right?"

  "Why, say, boss, dose sleut's is out of business." A merry grin

  split Spike's face. "It's funny, boss. Gee! It's got a circus

  skinned! Listen. Dey's bin an' arrest each other."

  Jimmy moodily revised his former view. Even in Bloomingdale, this

  sort of thing would be coldly received. Genius must ever walk alone.

  Spike would have to get along without hope of meeting a kindred

  spirit, another fellow-being in tune with his brain-processes.

  "Dat's right," chuckled Spike. "Leastways, it ain't."

  "No, no," said Jimmy, soothingly. " I quite understand."

  "It's dis way, boss. One of dem has bin an' arrest de odder mug. Dey

  had a scrap, each t'inkin' de odder guy was after de jools, an' not

  knowin' dey was bot' sleut's, an' now one of dem's bin an' taken de

  odder off, an'"--there were tears of innocent joy in Spike's eyes--

  "an' locked him into de coal-cellar."

  "What on earth do you mean?"

  Spike giggled helplessly.

  "Listen, boss. It's dis way. Gee! It beat de band! When it's all

  dark 'cos of de storm comin' on, I'm in de dressin'-room, chasin'

  around fer de jool-box, an' just as I gits a line on it, gee! I

  hears a footstep comin' down de passage, very soft, straight fer de

  door. Was I to de bad? Dat's right. I says to meself, here's one of

  de sleut' guys what's bin and got wise to me, an' he's comin' in to

&
nbsp; put de grip on me. So, I gits up quick, an' I hides behind a

  coitain. Dere's a coitain at de side of de room. Dere's dude suits

  an' t'ings hangin' behind it. I chases meself in dere, and stands

  waitin' fer de sleut' to come in. 'Cos den, you see, I'm goin' to

  try an' get busy before he can see who I am--it's pretty dark 'cos

  of de storm--an' jolt him one on de point of de jaw, an' den, while

  he's down an' out, chase meself fer de soivants' hall."

  "Yes?" said Jimmy.

  "Well, dis guy, he gits to de door, an' opens it, an' I'm just

  gittin' ready fer one sudden boist of speed, when dere jumps out

  from de room on de odder side de passage--you know de room--anodder

  guy, an' gits de rapid strangleholt on de foist mug. Say, wouldn't

  dat make youse glad you hadn't gone to de circus? Honest, it was

  better dan Coney Island."

  "Go on. What happened then?"

  "Dey falls to scrappin' good an' hard. Dey couldn't see me, an' I

  couldn't see dem, but I could hear dem bumpin' about and sluggin'

  each other to beat de band. An', by and by, one of de mugs puts do

  odder mug to de bad, so dat he goes down and takes de count; an' den

  I hears a click. An' I know what dat is. It's one of de gazebos has

  put de irons on de odder gazebo."

  "Call them A, and B.," suggested Jimmy.

  "Den I hears him--de foist mug--strike a light, 'cos it's dark dere

  'cos of de storm, an' den he says, 'Got youse. have I?' he says.

  'I've had my eye on youse, t'inkin' youse was up to somet'in' of dis

  kind. I've bin watching youse!' I knew de voice. It's dat mug what

  calls himself Sir Tummas' vally. An' de odder--"

  Jimmy burst into a roar of laughter.

  "Don't, Spike! This is more than man was meant to stand. Do you mean

  to tell me it is my bright, brainy, persevering friend Galer who has

  been handcuffed and locked in the coal-cellar?"

  Spike grinned broadly.

  "Sure, dat's right," he said.

  "It's a judgment," said Jimmy, delightedly. "That's what it is! No

  man has a right to be such a consumate ass as Galer. It isn't

  decent."

  There had been moments when McEachern's faithful employee had filled

  Jimmy with an odd sort of fury, a kind of hurt pride, almost to the

  extent of making him wish that he really could have been the

  desperado McEachern fancied him. Never in his life before had he sat

  still under a challenge, and this espionage had been one. Behind the