The Old Un, having bolted the last handful of cake, got upon his legs and clutched the Spider’s coat in talon-like fingers.

“’Old ’ard, young feller, me lad!” he cried.  “If there’s any chance of a scrap comin’ off—­wot about me?  Gimme me ‘at, Joe, an’ get yourn; if I don’t knock some on ’em stone cold—­call me a perishin’ ass!”

“Why, since you say so, old blood an’ bones,” said Joe, his mild eye brightening, “we will step along with the Spider a little way if the Guv’nor’ll excuse us?”

“Certainly, Joe,” nodded Ravenslee, “on condition that you do just as the Spider says.”

“You mean, sir?”

“No fighting, Joe—­at least, not yet.”

“Trust me, sir!  What ain’t to be—­yet, is to be sometime, I ’opes,” sighed Joe.

“Good-by, Guv, good-by!” croaked the Old Un, “if I don’t put some o’ they perishers in the ‘orspitals an’ the infirmaries—­I ain’t the man I was—­

“’Oh, used am I to war’s alarms
 I ’unger for the fray,
 Though beauty clasps me in ’er arms
 The trumpet calls away.’”

So having made their adieux, the three took their departure; though once, despite Joe’s objurgations, the Old Un must needs come back to kiss Mrs. Trapes’s toil-worn hand with a flourish which left her voiceless and round of eye until the clatter of their feet had died away.

Then she closed the door and fixed Ravenslee with her stoniest stare.

“Mr. Geoffrey,” she demanded, “why did they call you ‘Guv’nor’, and wherefore ’Sir’?”

Ravenslee, in the act of lighting his pipe, had paused for a suitable answer, when Tony, who had remained mute in a corner, stepped forward and spoke: 

“Say, Geoff, I got-a bit-a more noos.  Old-a Finlay-a want-a spik with-a you—­”

“Old Finlay—­with me?”

“Sure.  Old-a Finlay-a go die-a ver’ queek, an’ he vant-a spik with-a you first.”

“Dying!  Old Finlay dying?” questioned Ravenslee, rising.

“Sure!  He go die-a ver’ queek.”

“I’ll come!”

“An’ I guess,” said Mrs. Trapes, “yes, I opine as I’ll come along wi’ ye, Mr. Geoffrey.”

Old Martin Finlay lay propped up by pillows, his great, gaunt, useless body seeming almost too large for the narrow bed wherein he lay, staring up great-eyed at Ravenslee—­live eyes in a dead face.

“It’s dying I am, sorr,” said he faintly, “an’ it’s grateful is ould Martin for the docthers and medicine you’ve paid for.  But it’s meself is beyand ’em all—­an’ it’s beyand ’em I’m goin’ fast.  She’s waitin’ for me—­me little Maggie’s houlding out her little hand to me—­she’s waitin’ for me—­beyand, Holy Mary be praised!  An’ she’s waited long enough, sorr, my little Maggie as I loved so while the harsh words burned upon me tongue—­my little Maggie!  I was bitter cruel to my little girl, but you’ve been kind to me, and, sorr, I thank ye.  But,” continued the dying man, slowly and feebly, “it aren’t to thank yez as I wanted ye—­but to give yez something in trust for Miss Hermy—­ye see, sorr, I shant be here when she comes back to-night, I’ll be with—­little Maggie when the hour strikes—­my little Maggie!  Norah, wife—­give it to him.”