“Well, he’s smart and we kinda hoped he’d pull up himself.  We got a settlement worker interested in him and we got jobs for him, but nothing works.  Judge Harmon swears he’s out of patience with him and’ll send him to reform school at his next offense.  That’ll end Nucky.  He’ll be a gunman by the time he’s twenty.”

“You seem fond of the boy in spite of his criminal tendencies,” said Seaton.

“Aw, we all have criminal tendencies, far as that goes,” growled Foley; “you and I and all of us.  Don’t know as I’m what you’d call fond of the kid.  Maybe it’s his name.  Yes, I guess it’s his name.  Now what is your wildest guess for that little devil’s name, Mr. Seaton?”

The gray-hatred man shook his head.  “Pat Donahue, by his hair.”

“But not by his face, if you could see it.  His name is Enoch Huntingdon.  Yes, sir, Enoch Huntingdon!  What do you think of that?”

The astonishment expressed in Seaton’s eyes was all that the officer could desire.

“Enoch Huntingdon!  Why, man, that gutter rat has real blood in him, if he didn’t steal the name.”

“No kid ever stole such a name as that,” said Foley.  “And for all he’s homely enough to stop traffic, his face sorta lives up to his name.  Want a look at him?”

Mr. Seaton hesitated.  The tragic death of his own boy a few years before had left him shy of all boys.  But his curiosity was roused and with a sigh he nodded.

Foley crossed the street, Seaton following.  As they turned into the Square, Nucky saw them out of the tail of his eye.  He rose, casually, but Foley forestalled his next move by calling in a voice that carried above the street noises, “Nucky!  Wait a moment!”

The boy stopped and stood waiting until the two men came up.  Seaton eyed the strongly hewn face while the officer said, “That person you were with a bit ago, Nucky—­I don’t think much of her.  Better cut her out.”

“I can’t help folks talking to me, can I?” demanded the boy, belligerently.

“Especially the ladies!” snorted Foley.  “Regular village cut-up, you are!  Well, just mind what I say,” find he strolled on, followed by Seaton.

“He’ll never be hung for his beauty,” said Seaton.  “But, Foley, I’ll wager you’ll find that lad breeds back to Plymouth Rock!”

Foley nodded.  “Thought you’d be interested.  Every man who’s seen him is.  But there’s nothing doing.  Nucky is a hard pill.”

“Maybe he needs a woman’s hand,” suggested Seaton, “Sometimes these hard characters are clay with the right kind of a woman.”

“Or the wrong kind,” grunted the officer.

“No, the right kind,” insisted Mr. Seaton.  “I’m telling you, Foley, a good woman is the profoundest influence a man can have.  There’s a deep within him he never gives over to a bad woman.”

Foley’s keen gray eyes suddenly softened.  He looked for a moment above the tree tops to the clouds sailing across the blue.  “I guess you’re right, Mr. Seaton,” he said, “I guess you’re right!  Well, poor Nucky!  And I must be getting back.  Good day, Mr. Seaton.”