The guests had retreated against the walls, and Nickie held the floor.  Nobody believed this to be an artistic effort to sustain the character.  Weary Willie was as drunk as a lord.  He tittered a wild Indian whoop, and sang the chorus of “at the Old Bull and Bush,” beating time with a leg of turkey.  Then he turned to the band.

“Play ‘God Shave King’.” he said.  “If yeh don’ play ‘Go’ Shave King’ I’ll have ver heads off ’fore mornin’.”

King Henry interposed, he put a restraining hand on Nickie, and spoke soothingly to him and Nickie the Kid promptly knocked the poor monarch on the head.  Then rude hands seized Nickie:  he was rushed from the house; he was rushed down the path, and hurled into the street.

When all the guests had left the white mansion at Banklands, and daylight was streaming in, a weary man-servant interviewed the master of “Whitecliff.”

“Please, sir,” he said; “the—­eh—­gentleman who was thrown out last night.”

“Well, what of him?” asked the host, disgustedly.

“He’s sleeping in the garden, sir.”

The host went out.  He found Nickie the Kid sleeping in the Pansy bed, and Nickie was pulled to his feet.

“Nicholas!” he gasped.

“That’sh me, Willie,” answered Nicholas Crips.

“You blackguard, you intrude into my house and insult my guests, and you promised when I gave you that last L10 never to interfere with me again.”

“Now Willie, Little Willie,” said Nickie, “when did I ever keep my promises?”

“Leave my grounds or I’ll give you over to the police!”

“Chertainly,” said Nickie.  “Chertainly, I’ll leave the grounds.  There’s always room for me outside.”

He took the skirt off his coat, heavy with the contributions of the guests, in his hand, and strolled joyously through the gate.

“Ta-ta,” he said.  “Good-bye, Billy, dear ole Billy, dear, old, fat-headed, bumptious Billy!”

Feeling like a king, Nickie the Kid passed down the road, and the morning sun glittered on the emblem on his breast.  He was still sustaining the character.

CHAPTER IV.

A temporary reformation.

Nickie the Kid presented himself at the front door of a decorous villa in an intensely respectable suburb, with sad story.  Mr. Crips did not address the lady as an unblushing mendicant, he spoke as a man of some refinement and keen sensibility, whose bitter complaint was literally dragged from him by adverse circumstances.

The lady was touched—­her eye moistened.

“That is really very sad,” she said.  “Come right in, my poor man.  You must tell your story to my James.  James will know how to help you.”

Nickie followed the lady without the smallest compunction.  She knocked quietly at the door of a room and admitted Nicholas to a small apartment fitted up like a study.  At a table near the window a grave young man was seated with writing materials before him.