And now it was Spike's turn to grow thoughtful, while his companion,
noting the flushed brow and the firm set of the boyish lips, frowned no
longer.

"Hello, there's Tony!" exclaimed Spike as they turned into Forty-second
Street, "over there--behind the pushcart--th' guy with th' peanuts!" And
he pointed where, from amid a throng of vehicles, a gaily painted barrow
emerged, a barrow whereon were peanuts unbaked, baked, and baking as the
shrill small whistle above its stove proclaimed to all and sundry. It
was propelled by a slender, graceful, olive-skinned man, who, beholding
Spike, flashed two rows of brilliant teeth and halted his barrow beside
the curb.

"How goes it, Tony?" questioned Spike, whereat the young Italian smiled,
and thereafter sighed and shook his head.

"Da beezeneez-a ver' good," he sighed, "da peanut-a sell-a all-a da
time! But my lil' Pietro he sick, he no da same since his moder die-a,
me no da same--have-a none of da luck--noding--nix!"

"Hard cheese, Tony!" quoth Spike. "But say, have you seen th' Spider
kickin' around?"

"No, I ain't! But you tell-a da Signorina--"

"Sure I will--"

"My lil' Pietro he love-a da Signorina; me, I love-a her--she so good,
so generosa, ah, yes!" And taking off his hat in one hand, Tony kissed
the other and waved it gracefully in the air.

"Right-o, Tony!" nodded Spike. "You can let it go at that. An' say--this
is me friend Geoff."

Tony gripped Mr. Ravenslee's hand and shook it.

"You one o' da bunch--one o' da boys, hey? Good-a luck." So saying, Tony
nodded, flashed his white teeth again, and seizing the handles of his
barrow, trundled off his peanut oven, whistling soft and shrill.

"Tony's only a guinney," Spike explained as they walked on again. "But
he's white, Geoff--'n' say, he's a holy terror in a mix-up! Totes one o'
them stiletto knives. I've seen him stab down into a glass full of water
an' never spill a drop, which sure wants some doing."

Evening was falling, and dismal Tenth Avenue was wrapping itself in
shadow, a shadow made more manifest by small lights that burned dismally
in small and dingy shops, a shadow, this, wherein moving shadows jostled
with lounging shoulder or elbow. As they passed a certain dark entry
where divers of these vague shadows lounged, a long arm was stretched
thence, and a large hand gripped Spike's shoulder.

"Why--hello, Spider," said he, halting. "What's doin'?"

"Nawthin' much, Kid--only little M--'say,