“Well then,” sighed Mr. Ravenslee, “for her sake I will let you go—­wait!  I’ll let you go and never speak of your—­er—­little escapade here, if you will take me with you.”

Now at this, Spike gaped and fell back a step.

“Go wi’ me—­wi’ me?” he stammered.  “You—­go wi’ me to Hell’s Kitchen—­to Mulligan’s Dump—­you!  Say, what kind o’ song and dance are you giving me, anyway?  Aw—­quit yer kiddin’, sir!”

“But I mean it.”

“On—­on d’ level?”

“On the level.”

“Holy Gee!” and Spike relapsed into wide-eyed, voiceless wonder.

“Is it a go?” enquired Mr. Ravenslee.

“But—­but, say—­” stammered the boy, glancing from the elegant figure in the chair around the luxurious room and back again, “but you’re a—­a—­”

“Just a poor, disconsolate, lonely—­er—­guy!”

“What!” cried Spike, staring around him again, “with all this?  Oh, yes, you’re homeless and starving, you are—­I don’t think!”

“Is it a go?”

“But say—­whatcher want to go wi’ me for?  What’s yer game?  Put me wise.”

“I am filled with desire to breathe awhile the salubrious air of Hell’s Kitchen; will you take me?” Now as he spoke, beholding the boy’s staring amaze, Mr. Ravenslee’s frowning brows relaxed, his firm, clean-shaven lips quivered, and all at once curved up into a smile of singular sweetness—­a smile before which the hopelessness and fear died out of the boy’s long-lashed eyes, his whole strained attitude vanished, and he smiled also—­though perhaps a little tremulously.

“Will you take me, Spike?”

“You bet I will!” exclaimed the boy, his blue eyes shining, “and I’ll do my best to show you I—­I ain’t so bad as I—­as I seem—­an’ we’ll shake on it if you like.”  And Spike advanced with his hand outstretched, then paused, suddenly abashed, and drooping his head, turned away.  “I—­I forgot,” he muttered, “—­I’m—­you said I was a—­thief!”

“You meant to be!” said Mr. Ravenslee, and rising, he stretched himself and glanced at his watch.

“Are you coming wi’ me, sir?” enquired Spike, regarding Mr. Ravenslee’s length and breadth with quick, appraising eyes.

“I surely am!”

“But—­but not in them glad rags!” and Spike pointed to Mr. Ravenslee’s exquisitely tailored garments.

“Ah—­to be sure!” nodded their wearer.  “We’ll soon fix that,” and he touched the electric bell.

“Say,” cried Spike, starting forward in sudden terror, “you—­you ain’t goin’ to give me away?”

“No.”

“Cross your heart—­hope to die, you ain’t?”

“Across my heart and hope to die, I’m not—­and there’s my hand on it, Spike.”

“What?” exclaimed the boy, his eyes suspiciously bright, “d’ you mean you will shake—­after—­after what I—­”

“There’s my hand, Spike!” So their hands met and gripped, the boy’s hot and eagerly tremulous, the man’s cool and steady and strong; then of a sudden Spike choked and turning his back brushed away his tears with his cap.  Also at this moment, with a soft and discreet knock, Mr. Brimberly opened the door and bowed himself into the room; his attitude was deferential as always, his smile as respectful, but, beholding Spike, his round eyes grew rounder and his whiskers slightly bristly.