ple hills, and sleep at night under the still stars. He knows. I have
told him."

"That's right," says Spotty. "It'll be all to the good, that. Mareena can
cook too."

To prove it, she makes coffee and hands it around in little brass cups.
Also there's cakes, and the old man comes in, smilin' and rubbin' his
hands, and we has a real sociable time.

And these was the folks I'd suspected of wantin' to carve up Spotty! Why,
by the looks I saw thrown at him by them two, I knew they thought him the
finest thing that ever happened. Just by the way Mareena reached out sly
to pat his hair when she passed, you could see how it was.

So I wished 'em luck and hurried back to report before Pinckney sent a
squad of reserves after me.

"Well!" says he, the minute I gets in. "Let me know the worst at once."

"I will," says I. "He's married." It was all I could do, too, to make him
believe the yarn.

"By Jove!" says he. "Think of a chap like Spotty Cahill tumbling into a
romance like that! And on Fourth-ave!"

"It ain't so well advertised as some other lanes in this town," says I;
"but it's a great street. Say, what puzzled me most about the whole
business, though, was the new name they had for Spotty. Sareef! What in
blazes does that mean?"

"Probably a title of some sort," says Pinckney. "Like sheik, I suppose."

"But what does a Sareef have to do?" says I.

"Do!" says Pinckney. "Why, he's boss of the caravan. He--he sits around
in the sun and looks picturesque."

"Then that settles it," says I. "Spotty's qualified. I never thought
there was any place where he'd fit in; but, if your description's
correct, he's found the job he was born for."

CHAPTER IV

A GRANDMOTHER WHO GOT GOING

Ever go on a grandmother hunt through the Red Ink District? Well, it
ain't a reg'lar amusement of mine, but it has its good points. Maybe I
wouldn't have tackled it at all if I hadn't begun by lettin' myself get
int'rested in Vincent's domestic affairs.

Now what I knew about this Vincent chap before we starts out on the
grandmother trail wouldn't take long to tell. He wa'n't any special
friend of mine. For one thing, he wears his hair cut plush. Course, it's
his hair, and if he wants to train it to stand up on top like a clothes
brush or a blacking dauber, who am I that should curl the lip of scorn?

Just the same, I never could feel real chummy towards anyone that sported
one of them self raisin' crests. Vincent wa'n't one o