“Is she?” said Mr. Ravenslee, frowning.

“You bet she is, Geoff!  An’ Mulligan’s an Irishman an’ mean—­say, he’s the meanest mutt you ever see.  A Jew’s mean, so’s a Chink, but a mean Harp’s got ’em both skinned ’way to ‘Frisco an’ back again!  Why, Mulligan’s that mean he wouldn’t cough up a nickel to see the Statue o’ Liberty do a Salomy dance in d’ bay.  So when the mazuma’s shy Hermy worries some—­”

“Don’t you help her?” demanded Mr. Ravenslee.

“Help her—­why, y’ see, Geoff, I—­I ain’t in a steady job yet.  But I do my best an’—­why, there’s d’ kettle boilin’ at last!” saying which, Spike turned and vanished again, leaving Mr. Ravenslee still staring down at the pictured face.  Presently he sank back in his chair, and, lolling thus, looked sleepily at the opposite wall but saw it not, nor heard the clatter of cups and saucers from the kitchen accompanied by Spike’s windy whistling; and, as he lounged thus, he spoke softly, and to himself.

“An object!” he murmured.

“Hey, Geoff,” Spike called, “this ain’t goin’ to be no a la carte, hock an’ claret feedin’ match, nor yet no table-de-hoty eat-fest, but if you can do in some bacon an’ eggs, you’re on!”

“Why, then,” said Mr. Ravenslee, rising and yawning, “count me decidedly ‘on.’”

“Then d’ you mind givin’ me a hand wid d’ coffee?”

“Delighted!” and forthwith Mr. Ravenslee stepped out into the kitchen; and there, in a while, upon a rickety table covered with a greasy newspaper, they ate and drank with great relish and gusto, insomuch that Mr. Ravenslee marvelled at his own appetite.

“Say, Geoff,” enquired Spike as hunger waned, “how long are you stoppin’ at Mulligan’s—­a week?”

“A week—­a month—­six months,” replied his guest sleepily.  “It’s all according—­”

“Accordin’ to what?”

“Well—­er—­circumstances.”

“What circumstances?”

“Circumstances over which I have no control—­yet!”

“You don’t mean me?” queried Spike, with an anxious expression.

“Lord, no!”

“And you’ll never tell nobody that I—­that I—­”

“Meant to be—­a thief?” drawled Mr. Ravenslee.  “Not a word!”

Spike flushed, took a gulp of coffee, choked, and fell to sulky silence, while Mr. Ravenslee filled his pipe and yawned.

“Say,” demanded Spike at last, “where’ll you live while you’re here?”

“Oh—­somewhere, I suppose; I haven’t bothered about where yet.”

“Well, I been thinkin’ I know where I can fix you up—­perhaps!”

“Very kind of you, Spike!”

“There’s Mrs. Trapes ’cross d’landing; she lost her lodger last week—­mean guy skinned off without paying d’ rent—­she might take you.”

“Across the landing?  She’ll do!” nodded Mr. Ravenslee.

“But I’m wonderin’ if you’ll do; she’s a holy terror when she likes, Geoff.”

“Across the landing?  I’ll put up with her!” murmured Mr. Ravenslee.