h you."

"Joe? Y' mean--Joe Madden?"

"He'll be chauffeur number one--and there's a cross-town car! Come on,
Spider! Now--in with you!"

CHAPTER XXXI

IN WHICH SOAPY TAKES A HAND

O'Rourke's was full: its long bar, shaped something like the letter J,
supported many lounging arms and elbows; its burnished foot-rail was
scraped by boots of many shapes and sizes; its heavy air, thick with
cigarette smoke, hummed with many voices. In one corner, a remote corner
where few ventured to penetrate, Soapy leaned, as pallid and
noncommittal as ever, while Spike poured out to him the story of his
woes.

"She drove me out, Soapy! She drove me away from her!" he repeated for
the hundredth time. The boy was unnaturally flushed and bright of eye,
and his voice was as shaky as the hand which fidgeted with his whisky
glass; and the sense of his wrongs was great and growing greater with
every sip.

"She told me t' leave her! She drove me away from her--"

"So you come here, eh, Kid?" drawled Soapy, pendent cigarette
smouldering. "You skinned over here t' Bud f' comfort, an' you'll sure
get it, Kid--in a glass!"

"Bud's always good t' me--"

"'S right, Kid, 's right, Bud's an angel sure, though he ain't got no
wings yet. Oh, Bud'll comfort ye--frequent, an' by an' by he'll take ye
back t' Hermy good an' soused; you can get your own back that ways--eh,
Kid? It'll sure make her sit up an' take notice when she sees ye come in
reelin' an' staggerin'--eh, Kid? An' to-morrow you'll be sick mebbe, an'
she'll have ter nurse ye--oh, Bud'll fix things fer ye, I guess." Spike
glowered and pushed his half-emptied glass further away.

"I ain't goin' home soused!" he muttered.

"No?" said Soapy, faintly surprised. "Bud'll feel kind o' hurt, won't
he?"

"I ain't goin' home soused--not for Bud nor nobody else!"

"Why, then, if I was you, Kid, I should beat it before Bud comes in."

"I guess I will," said Spike, rising.

But now was sudden uproar of voices in the street hard by, a running
and trampling of feet, and, the swing doors opening, a group of men
appeared, bearing among them a heavy burden; and coming to the quiet
corner they laid M'Ginnis there. Battered, bloody, and torn he lay,
his handsome features swollen and disfigured, his clothes dusty and
dishevelled, while above him and around him men stooped and peered and
whispered.

"Why, it's--it's--Bud!" stammered Spike, shrinking away from that
inanimate form, "my Go