“Probably it’s your conscience, Spike.”

“You won’t ever go telling any one or blowing d’ game on me?”

“Spike, when I make a promise I generally keep it.”

“Y’ see, Geoff, it ain’t as though I was a—­a real crook.”

“You meant to be.”

“But I never stole nothin’ in my life, Geoff.”

“Suppose I hadn’t caught you?”

“Oh, well, cheese it, Geoff, cheese it!  Let’s talk about something else.”

“With pleasure.  When does your sister return?”

“This evening, I guess.  But, Geoff—­say now, do I look like a real crook—­do I?”

“No, you don’t, Spike, that’s sure!  And yet—­only last night—­”

“Ah, yes, I know—­I know!” groaned the lad, “but I was crazy, I think.  It was the whisky, Geoff, an’ they doped me too, I guess!  I don’t remember much after we left till I found myself in your swell joint.  God! if I was only sure they doped me.”

“Who?”

“Who?  Why—­gee, you nearly had me talking that time!  Nix on the questions, Geoff, I ain’t goin’ to give ’em away; it ain’t playin’ square.  Only, if two or three guys dopes a guy till a guy’s think-box is like a cheese an’ his mind as clear as mud, that poor guy ain’t to be blamed for it, now, is he?”

“Why, certainly!” nodded Ravenslee.

“How d’ ye make that out?”

“For being such a fool of a guy as to let other guys fool him, of course.  Sounds a little cryptic, but I guess you understand.”

“Oh, I get you!” sighed Spike drearily.  “But say, didn’t you come out to buy a toothbrush?”

“And other things, yes.”

“Well, say, s’pose we quit chewing th’ rag an’ start in an’ get ’em.  There’s a Sheeny store on Ninth Avenue where you can get dandy shirts for fifty cents a throw.”

“Sounds fairly reasonable!” nodded Mr. Ravenslee as they turned up Thirty-ninth Street.

“Then you want a new lid, Geoff!”

Mr. Ravenslee took off the battered hat and looked at it.

“What’s the matter with this?” he enquired.

“Nothin’, Geoff, only it wants burnin’,” sighed Spike.  “An’ then—­them boots—­oh, gee!”

“Are they so bad as that?”

“Geoff, they sure are the punkest pavement pounders in little old N’ York.  Why, a Dago hodcarrier wouldn’t be seen dead in ’em; look at th’ patches.  Gee whizz!  Where did His Whiskers dig ’em up from?”

“I fancy they were his own—­once,” answered Mr. Ravenslee, surveying his bulbous, be-patched footgear a little ruefully.

“Well, I’ll gamble a stack of blue chips there ain’t such a phoney pair in Manhattan Village.”

“They’re not exactly things of beauty, I’ll admit,” sighed Mr. Ravenslee, “but still—­”

“They’re rotten, Geoff!  They’re all to the garbage can!  They are the cheesiest proposition in sidewalk slappers I ever piped off!”

“Hum!  You’re inclined to be a trifle discouraging, Spike!”