gateway.

Nickie was calling him "Bill," "Billy," and "Willyum," indiscriminately.
Stub nearly fainted when he saw the gentleman draw a bank-note from his
pocket, and hand it to Nicholas Crips. Nickie lifted his deplorable hat,
and said:

"So long, Bill. I'm sorry I can't come an' stay a month. Some other time,
perhaps."

The gentleman went in, and slammed the gate behind him. Nickie returned
to the heap, and picked up his coat and donned it.

"I'm handing in my resignation, Mr. McGuire," he said. "You are welcome
to my earnings, as I intend to live on my means--temporary at least." He
held up the note.

"A tenner!" gasped McGuire.

"A tenner!" replied Nicholas, "presented by the kind gentleman on
condition that I emigrate from this suburb and absent myself permanently.
The worst thing about rich relations, Stub, is that they want whole
suburbs to themselves; the best is that you can make them pay for the
privilege of exclusiveness."

CHAPTER III.

THE MASK BALL.

NICKIE the Kid only observed his agreements and kept honourable promises
so long as some material advantage flowed from his complaisance. Within a
month he was again haunting the vicinity of the white mansion. One night
he leaned against the fence and watched a procession of guests alighting
from their vehicles. Splendid motors dashed up, and loads of
gaily-dressed ladies and gentlemen quaintly caparisoned were discharged
at the great iron gates, and went trooping up the path to the flaring
white residence, blazing like a crystal palace in a fairy tale.

Nickie was not exactly envious, but looking through the iron railing at
the gay array of lanterns in the vast garden, and the glowing mansion,
and hearing the hubbub of cheerful voices and the laughter, he had a
dawning sense that respectability, especially well-to-do respectability,
had its compensations after all.

He walked to the gate for a better view, and discovered a strange object
lying on the path. It was a false nose, a large, red, boosy nose, with, a
length of elastic to hold it in its place. One of the guests had dropped
it. Nickie put it on in a waggish humour, and stood moralising as three
pretty Spanish dancers, in charge of a toreador, passed in.

Nickie loved gaiety, waster and rapscallion as he was--sunshine, colour,
flowers, beautiful women, life, music and laughter shook passions loose
within him. Another little kink in his brain might have made a poet of
him, just as th