“How goes it, Tony?” questioned Spike, whereat the young Italian smiled, and thereafter sighed and shook his head.

“Da beezeneez-a ver’ good,” he sighed, “da peanut-a sell-a all-a da time!  But my lil’ Pietro he sick, he no da same since his moder die-a, me no da same—­have-a none of da luck—­noding—­nix!”

“Hard cheese, Tony!” quoth Spike.  “But say, have you seen th’ Spider kickin’ around?”

“No, I ain’t!  But you tell-a da Signorina—­”

“Sure I will—­”

“My lil’ Pietro he love-a da Signorina; me, I love-a her—­she so good, so generosa, ah, yes!” And taking off his hat in one hand, Tony kissed the other and waved it gracefully in the air.

“Right-o, Tony!” nodded Spike.  “You can let it go at that.  An’ say—­this is me friend Geoff.”

Tony gripped Mr. Ravenslee’s hand and shook it.

“You one o’ da bunch—­one o’ da boys, hey?  Good-a luck.”  So saying, Tony nodded, flashed his white teeth again, and seizing the handles of his barrow, trundled off his peanut oven, whistling soft and shrill.

“Tony’s only a guinney,” Spike explained as they walked on again.  “But he’s white, Geoff—­’n’ say, he’s a holy terror in a mix-up!  Totes one o’ them stiletto knives.  I’ve seen him stab down into a glass full of water an’ never spill a drop, which sure wants some doing.”

Evening was falling, and dismal Tenth Avenue was wrapping itself in shadow, a shadow made more manifest by small lights that burned dismally in small and dingy shops, a shadow, this, wherein moving shadows jostled with lounging shoulder or elbow.  As they passed a certain dark entry where divers of these vague shadows lounged, a long arm was stretched thence, and a large hand gripped Spike’s shoulder.

“Why—­hello, Spider,” said he, halting.  “What’s doin’?”

“Nawthin’ much, Kid—­only little M—­’say, who’s wid you?”

“Oh, this is a friend o’ mine—­Geoff, dis is d’ Spider!” explained Spike.

Visualised in “the Spider” Ravenslee saw a tall, slender youth, very wide in the shoulder and prodigiously long of arm and leg, and who looked at him keen-eyed from beneath a wide cap brim, while his square jaws worked with untiring industry upon a wad of chewing gum.

“Good evening!” said Ravenslee and held out his hand.  The Spider ceased chewing for a moment, nodded, and turning to Spike, chewed fiercer than ever.

“Where youse goin’, Kid?” he enquired, masticating the while.

“What was you goin’ to tell me, Spider?” demanded Spike, a note of sudden anxiety in his voice.

“Nawthin’, Kid.”

“Aw—­come off, Spider!  What was it?”

The Spider glanced up at the gloomy sky, glanced down at the dingy pavement, and finally beckoned Spike aside with a quick back-jerk of the head, and, stooping close, whispered something in his ear—­something that caused the boy to start away with clenched hands and face of horror, something that seemed to trouble him beyond speech, for he stood a moment dumb and staring, then found utterance in a sudden, hoarse cry: