She divorced him. Mind you, Margie was square, like most of those
'come-ons.' She'd 'how dare' a guy that so much as looked at her. You
know the kind I mean."

"And the child? Where do you suppose she keeps it?"

Mallow reflected. "The last time I saw the little cherub he was singing
bass in a bellboys' quartette at Hot Springs. He hops bells at the
Arlington summers and butchers peanuts at the track during the
season--you know, hollers 'Here they come!' before they start, then
when the women jump up he pinches the betting tickets out of their laps
and cashes them with the bookies."

"Could you get hold of this--this boy basso and bring him here without
letting him or his mother know?"

"I can if he's still at Hot Springs, and I saw him there the last time
I was up. The little darling got me into a crap game and ran in some
shaped dice. Of course, it would cost something to get him."

"How much?"

Mallow "shot" his cuff and upon it gravely figured up the probable
expense. "Well, there would be the fares and the eats and his bit--he
wouldn't come for nothing. He'd gyp me for ten dollars, but he'd
probably come for five. I'd offer him three--"

"There is a thousand dollars in it if you can produce him within the
next forty-eight hours. I doubt my ability to sit on the safety valve
much longer than that, for Buddy Briskow is rapidly breaking out with
matrimonial measles. If I throw cold water on him it will only
aggravate the disease."

"A thousand dollars!" Mallow cried. "Why, for a thousand berries I'll
bring you his head on a platter. I'll car the little devil down and
lock him in a suitcase." The speaker hesitated a moment before
concluding. "It's a dirty trick on Margie, though."

"I know. But I'm thinking of Buddy. Now, in Heaven's name, hurry! My
constitution may survive a few more road houses, but my reputation will
not."

That night was a repetition of the one before, but with variations and
with trimmings, for Buddy wore his "two-pint trousers" again, and this
time they were loaded, hence Gray had a chance to observe him at his
best--or worst. A little liquor went a long way with the boy; he
derived much effect, many by-products, so to speak, from even a few
drinks, and the elder man was forcibly reminded of Gus Briskow's
statement that his son had a streak of the Old Nick in him. It was
true; Buddy was indeed like a wild horse. Artificially stimulated, he
became a creature of pure impulse, and those