Gilmore and Joe Montgomery were distantly related, and while the latter never presumed on the score of this remote connection, the gambler himself tacitly admitted it by the help he now and then extended him, for Montgomery’s means of subsistence were at the best precarious.  If he had been called on to do so, he would have described himself as a handy-man, since he lived by the doing of odd jobs.  He cleaned carpets in the spring; he cut lawns in the summer; in the fall he carried coal into the cellars of Mount Hope, and in the winter he shoveled the snow off Mount Hope’s pavements; and at all times and in all seasons, whether these industries flourished or languished, he drank.

He now established himself on Mr. Gilmore’s hearth,—­a necessity—­for he bent his hulking body and stuck his curly red head well into the grate; then as he withdrew it, he passed the back of his hand across his discolored lip.

“Excuse me, boss, I had to!” he apologized.

In Mr. Gilmore’s presence Joe inclined toward a humble decency, for he was vaguely aware that he was an unclean thing, and that only the mysterious bond of blood gave him this rich and powerful patron.

“Well, you old sot!” said Gilmore pleasantly.  “You haven’t drunk yourself to death since I saw you in McBride’s last night?”

The handy-man gave him a wide toothless grin, and his bashful blue eyes shifted, shuttle-wise, in their sockets until he was able to survey in full the splendor of the apartment.

“Boss, you got a sure-enough well-dressed room; I never seen anything that could hold a candle to it,—­it’s a bird!” He stole a shy abashed glance at the pictures on the wall, but becoming aware that Gilmore was watching him, he dropped his eyes in some confusion.  “I reckon’ them female pictures cost a fortune!” he said.

“They cost enough!” rejoined Gilmore, and again Montgomery ventured a covert glance in the direction of one of the works of art.

“I reckon it was summer-time!” he hinted modestly.

Gilmore laughed.

“How would you like one of them?” he asked.

Montgomery gave him a swift glance of alarm.

“No, boss, I’m a respectable married man, and if I lugged one of them ladies home with me, my old woman wouldn’t do a thing but raise hell!  Boss, they’re raw; yes, sir, that’s it—­they’re raw!” Then fearing he had gone too far in an adverse criticism, he added, “Friends of yours, boss?”

“Not all of them!” said Gilmore, with lazy amusement.

“Catched unawares?” hinted Montgomery.  But Gilmore changed the subject abruptly.

“Well, what did you come here for?” he demanded.

“I got a lot of things on my mind, boss!  I been a-worryin’ all morning and then I thinks of you.  ‘Mr. Gilmore’s the man to go to,’ I tells myself, and I quit my job and come here.”

He stuck his head into the grate again, but this time without apology.