“Max is getting his map greased,” the pop-eyed youth explained.  Taking a pasteboard box from his pocket, he removed a heroin tablet therefrom and crushed it; the powder he held in the indentation between the base of his closed thumb and first finger, known as “the thimble”; then, with a quick inhalation, he drew the drug up his nostrils.  “Have an angel?” he inquired, offering the box.

Jim accepted, but Young Sullivan declined.

“What’s the news?” the latter inquired.

“I’ve seen Goldy,” replied Jim.  “Mother and I will call on Merkle at three.  I finally got her to consent.”

Sullivan shook his head.  “He might fall, but I doubt it.  How does your sister feel?”

“That’s the trouble.  She’s square, and we can’t use her,” Jim explained.

“Some doll!” admiringly commented Armistead, the third member of the group.  Armistead had once been famed in vaudeville for dancing, but the drug habit had destroyed his endurance, and with it his career.  “She’s a perfect thirty-six, all right.  She could rip a lot of coin loose if she tried.”

At this moment Mr. Melcher, freshly perfumed and talcumed, entered the room.  His white hair was arranged with scrupulous nicety; his pink face, as unwrinkled as his immaculate attire, was beaming with good humor.

“Well, boys, I’m the pay-car,” he smiled.

“Hammon came through, eh?” Sullivan inquired, eagerly.

“Not exactly; we compromised.  Quick sales and small profits; that’s business.”

“How strong did he go?” queried Armistead.

“Now, what’s the difference, so long as you get yours?  Photography is a paying business.”  Melcher laughed agreeably.

“Sure!  I’ll bet Sarony is rich.”  Young Sullivan carelessly accepted the roll of currency which Melcher tossed him, and the others did likewise.

“I suppose that’s curtain for us,” Jim said, regretfully.

“It is.  The rest is Lilas’s affair.”

“Say, will the old man fall again?” queried Armistead.

“He’s going to marry her!” The three others stared at him in amazement.  “Right!” confirmed Melcher.  “She’s got a strangle hold on him.”

“Hm-m!  Maybe we haven’t lost the last car yet,” Sullivan ventured.

Jim seconded the thought.  “She’s got an ace buried somewhere.  There’s a lot more in her head than hair-pins.  I wish Merkle would marry my sister.”

“Not a chance,” Melcher declared.  “You’ll be lucky to shake him down for a few thousand.  How about Wharton?  Will she stand for him?”

Jim frowned, and his voice was rough as he replied: 

“I’ll make her stand for him—­if it’s a marry.”

“He’s a lush; if you got him stewed he might go that far.  It has been done; but, of course, it’s all up to the girl.  Anyhow, if he balks at the altar we might get him for something else.”

“I’m not sure I’ll need any help in this.”  Jim looked up coldly.  “If he marries her, that ends it; if we have to frame him, of course I’ll split.”