They overtook him just as he and Betsy were entering Costigan’s Casino.  They deflected him, and shoved the newspaper under his nose.  Fuzzy could read—­and more.

“Boys,” said he, “you are certainly damn true friends.  Give me a week to think it over.”

The soul of a real artist is quenched with difficulty.

The boys carefully pointed out to him that advertisements were soulless, and that the deficiencies of the day might not be supplied by the morrow.

“A cool hundred,” said Fuzzy thoughtfully and mushily.

“Boys,” said he, “you are true friends.  I’ll go up and claim the reward.  The show business is not what it used to be.”

Night was falling more surely.  The three tagged at his sides to the foot of the rise on which stood the Millionaire’s house.  There Fuzzy turned upon them acrimoniously.

“You are a pack of putty-faced beagle-hounds,” he roared.  “Go away.”

They went away—­a little way.

In “Pigeon” McCarthy’s pocket was a section of one-inch gas-pipe eight inches long.  In one end of it and in the middle of it was a lead plug.  One-half of it was packed tight with solder.  Black Riley carried a slung-shot, being a conventional thug.  “One-ear” Mike relied upon a pair of brass knucks—­an heirloom in the family.

“Why fetch and carry,” said Black Riley, “when some one will do it for ye?  Let him bring it out to us.  Hey—­what?”

“We can chuck him in the river,” said “Pigeon” McCarthy, “with a stone tied to his feet.”

“Youse guys make me tired,” said “One-ear” Mike sadly.  “Ain’t progress ever appealed to none of yez?  Sprinkle a little gasoline on ’im, and drop ’im on the Drive—­well?”

Fuzzy entered the Millionaire’s gate and zigzagged toward the softly glowing entrance of the mansion.  The three goblins came up to the gate and lingered—­one on each side of it, one beyond the roadway.  They fingered their cold metal and leather, confident.

Fuzzy rang the door-bell, smiling foolishly and dreamily.  An atavistic instinct prompted him to reach for the button of his right glove.  But he wore no gloves; so his left hand dropped, embarrassed.

The particular menial whose duty it was to open doors to silks and laces shied at first sight of Fuzzy.  But a second glance took in his passport, his card of admission, his surety of welcome—­the lost rag-doll of the daughter of the house dangling under his arm.

Fuzzy was admitted into a great hall, dim with the glow from unseen lights.  The hireling went away and returned with a maid and the Child.  The doll was restored to the mourning one.  She clasped her lost darling to her breast; and then, with the inordinate selfishness and candor of childhood, stamped her foot and whined hatred and fear of the odious being who had rescued her from the depths of sorrow and despair.  Fuzzy wriggled himself into an ingratiatory attitude and essayed the idiotic smile and blattering small talk that is supposed to charm the budding intellect of the young.  The Child bawled, and was dragged away, hugging her Betsy close.