“Did you know him?”

“Not me, bo, I wasn’t in his class.  But I seen him fight years ago.”

“Do you think Spike will ever make a champion?” enquired Ravenslee suddenly.  “I mean if he were given every chance?”

“Well,” answered the Spider slowly, “he sure has the grit; ther ain’t nothin’ on two legs he’s afraid of except—­himself, bo.  He’s too high-strung.  Nerves is his trouble, I reckon.  Why, Chee!  When he’s in d’ ring he can’t be still a minute, can’t let himself rest between rounds, see?  He kinder beats himself, I guess.”

“I know what you mean,” nodded Ravenslee, “and I’m sure you’re right.  By the way, have you ever seen M’Ginnis fight?”

“I seen him scrap once or twice—­he’s sure ugly in a rough-house, but in th’ ring—­well, I dunno!”

“Has he a punch?”

“Bo, he’s got a sleep-pill in each mitt if—­if he can land his wallop right!  Yes, siree, if Bud can hit a guy where it’ll do most good, that guy’s sure goin’ to forget his cares an’ troubles for a bit.  But he’s slow an’ heavy, Bud is, though I ain’t never seen him mix it in th’ ring, mind.”

“H’m,” said Ravenslee thoughtfully, “M’Ginnis seems to have it all his own way around here—­why?”

“Well, because Bud’s Bud, an’ because Bud’s old man is a Tammany boss—­which gives Bud a big pull wid d’ police.  ’Nuff said, I guess.”

“Quite!” nodded Ravenslee, and walked thereafter deeper in thought than ever.  “Where are you taking me?” he enquired, as they turned a sudden corner.

“To d’ river!”

“This is Eleventh Avenue, then?”

“Yep!  Watch out you don’t trip on d’ railroad tracks.”  And now the Spider seemed to have become thoughtful also, and somewhat gloomy, judging by his face as seen by an occasional feeble light as they traversed the unlovely thoroughfare.

“Bo,” said he suddenly, “I’m thinkin’ there’s some guys in this world as would be better out of it.  I’m thinkin’ of some guy as got a little girl into trouble—­an’ left her to it.  Her kid died, an’ her folks turned her out, an’ she’d have died too, I guess, if it hadn’t been for Miss Hermione an’ old Mother Trapes—­ye see, she was all alone, poor little kid!  Now a man as would treat a girl that ways ain’t got no right t’ live, I reckon.  I should like t’ know who that guy was!  I should like t’ meet that guy—­once!”

After this the Spider became more gloomy than ever and spoke only in surly monosyllables.  Suddenly he turned off along a narrow, ill-lighted alleyway that led them between divers small mean houses and tall, dark warehouses and brought them suddenly out upon the misty foreshore beyond which the dim and mighty river flowed.  On they went, the Spider’s depression growing perceptibly, until at last their feet trod the rough planking of a narrow causeway which ended in a dark, raft-like structure moored out in the river.  Here was a small and dismal shack from whose solitary window a feeble ray of light beamed.