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"Good heavens, Spike, you must be mad. Can't you see Oh, Lord! Directly the loss of those pearls is discovered, we shall have those detectives after us in a minute. Didn't you know they had been watching us?" An involuntary chuckle escaped Spike. "'Scuse me, Mr. Chames, but dat's funny about dem sleut's. Listen. Dey's bin an' arrest each other." "What!" "Dat's right.
We'll get those to-morrow. You're the sort of figure they can fit off the peg. You're not too tall, which is a good thing." "Bad t'ing for me, Mr. Chames. If I'd bin taller I'd have stood for being a New York cop, and bin buying a brownstone house on Fifth Avenue by this. It's de cops makes de big money in old Manhattan, dat's who it is." "You're right there," said Jimmy. "At least, partly.
"Say, boss. Excuse me." Jimmy spun round. A ragged man with a crop of fiery red hair was standing at his side. The light was dim, but Jimmy recognized that hair. "Spike!" he cried. The other gaped, then grinned a vast grin of recognition. "Mr. Chames! Gee, dis cops de limit!"
But dat'll be all right. I'm going to sit in at another game dis time. Politics, Mr. Chames. A fr'en' of a mug what I knows has got a pull. Me brother Dan is an alderman wit' a grip on de 'Levent' Ward," he went on softly. "He'll find me a job!" "You'll be a boss before you know where you are." "Sure!" said Spike, grinning modestly.
He took a seat. "Cigar, Spike?" "Sure. T'anks, Mr. Chames." Jimmy lit his pipe. Spike, after a few genteel sips, threw off his restraint and finished the rest of his glass at a gulp. "Try another," suggested Jimmy. Spike's grin showed that the idea had been well received. Jimmy sat and smoked in silence for a while. He was thinking the thing over.
"This is my friend Pitt, uncle," said Spennie, presenting Jimmy with a motion of the hand. Sir Thomas extended three fingers. Jimmy extended two, and the handshake was not a success. At this point in the interview, Spike came up, chuckling amiably, with a magazine in his hand. "P'Chee!" said Spike. "Say, Mr. Chames, de mug what wrote dis piece must ha' bin livin' out in de woods for fair.
Can you manage sleeping on the sofa for one night?" "Gee, I've bin sleepin' on de Embankment all de last week. Dis is to de good, Mister Chames."
Spike shot out like a rabbit released from a trap. He was not lacking in courage, but he disliked embarrassing interviews, and it struck him that Mr. Chames was the man to handle a situation of this kind. He felt that he himself would only be in the way. "Now we can talk comfortably," said Jimmy, going back to his chair.
His six years of burglary had given him an odd sort of professional pride. "I've half a mind," he said softly. The familiar expression on his face was not lost on Spike. "To try for de jools, Mr. Chames?" he asked eagerly. His words broke the spell. Molly resumed her place. The hard look died out of Jimmy's eyes. "No," he said. "Not that. It can't be done." "Yes, it could, Mr. Chames. Dead easy.
Look at dis old McEachern. Money to boin a wet dog wit', he's got, and never a bit of woik for it from de start to de finish. An' look at me, Mr. Chames." "I do, Spike, I do." "Look at me. Getting busy all de year round, woiking to beat de band all " "In prisons oft," said Jimmy. "Dat's right. And chased all roun' de town. And den what? Why, to de bad at de end of it all.
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