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"Hermy!" growled M'Ginnis, black brows fierce and scowling, "a hell of a lot you care for Hermy, I don't think!" "Say now, you Bud, whatcher mean?" demanded Spike, quivering with sudden anger. "Just this, Kid what kind of a brother are ye t' go lettin' that noo pal o' yours that guy you call Geoff go sneaking round her morning, noon, an' night?" "You cut that out, Bud M'Ginnis. Geoff don't!
"You've done it, sir!" panted Peter; and then loudly, "It's all right, old man," he continued, as he held out the rest of the piece of cake. "That's only his way of coming down. Whatcher frightened about?
"How the hell can I know if it's good or not?" retorted the bartender. "Whatcher take me for, hey?" Then Jurgis slowly and warily approached him; he took out the bill, and fumbled it for a moment, while the man stared at him with hostile eyes across the counter. Then finally he handed it over.
"Whatcher doing of?" cried the boy angrily. "Stopping you from bringing the French down upon us," cried Pen sharply. "What were you thinking about?" "I wasn't thinking at all," said the boy slowly, as his brow wrinkled up in a puzzled way. "Well, I was a fool! Got a sort of idea in my head that some of our fellows might hear it and come down and find us."
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