The Gem Collector | Page 3

see him watching covertly. He realized that this was not the place for a
prolonged conversation.
"Spike," he said, "do you know Savoy Mansions?"
"Sure. Foist to de left across de way."
"Come on there. I'll meet you at the door. We can't talk here. That cop's
got his eye on us."
He walked away. As he went, he smiled. The policeman's inspection
had made him suddenly alert and on his guard. Yet why? What did it
matter to Sir James Pitt, baronet, if the whole police force of London
stopped and looked at him?
"Queer thing, habit," he said, as he made his way across the road.

CHAPTER II.
A black figure detached itself from the blacker shadows, and shuffled
stealthily to where Jimmy stood on the doorstep.
"That you, Spike?" asked Jimmy, in a low voice.
"Dat's right, Mr. Chames."
"Come on in."
He led the way up to his rooms, switched on the electric light, and shut
the door. Spike stood blinking at the sudden glare. He twirled his
battered hat in his hands. His red hair shone fiercely.
Jimmy inspected him out of the corner of his eye, and came to the
conclusion that the Mullins finances must be at a low ebb. Spike's
costume differed in several important details from that of the ordinary
well-groomed man about town. There was nothing of the flaneur about
the Bowery boy. His hat was of the soft black felt, fashionable on the
East Side of New York. It was in poor condition, and looked as if it had
been up too late the night before. A black tail coat, burst at the elbows,
stained with mud, was tightly buttoned across his chest. This evidently
with the idea of concealing the fact that he wore no shirt--an attempt
which was not wholly successful. A pair of gray flannel trousers and
boots out of which two toes peeped coyly, completed the picture.
Even Spike himself seemed to be aware that there were points in his
appearance which would have distressed the editor of a men's fashion
paper.
"'Scuse dese duds," he said. "Me man's bin an' mislaid de trunk wit' me
best suit in. Dis is me number two."
"Don't mention it, Spike," said Jimmy. "You look like a matinee idol.
Have a drink?"
Spike's eye gleamed as he reached for the decanter. 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. He had met Spike Mullins for the first time in rather curious
circumstances in New York, and for four years the other had followed
him with a fidelity which no dangers or hardships could affect.
Whatever "Mr. Chames" did, said, or thought was to Spike the best
possible act, speech, or reflection of which man was capable. For four
years their partnership had continued, and then, conducting a little
adventure on his own account in Jimmy's absence, Spike had met with
one of those accidents which may happen to any one. The police had
gathered him in, and he had passed out of Jimmy's life.
What was puzzling Jimmy was the problem of what to do with him
now that he had reëntered it. Mr. Chames was one man. Sir James
Willoughby Pitt, baronet, another. On the other hand, Spike was plainly
in low water, and must be lent a helping hand.
Spike was looking at him over his glass with respectful admiration.
Jimmy caught his eye, and spoke.
"Well, Spike," he said. "Curious, us meeting like this."
"De limit," agreed Spike.
"I can't imagine you three thousand miles away from New York. How
do you know the cars still run both ways on Broadway?"
A wistful look came into Spike's eye.

"I t'ought it was time I give old Lunnon a call. De cops seemed like as
if they didn't have no use for me in New York. Dey don't give de glad
smile to a boy out of prison."
"Poor old Spike," said Jimmy, "you've had bad luck, haven't you?"
"Fierce," agreed the other.
"But whatever induced you to try for that safe without me? They were
bound to get you. You should have waited."
"Dat's right, boss, if I never says anudder word. I was a farmer for fair
at de game wit'out youse. But I t'ought I'd try to do somet'ing so dat I'd
have somet'ing to show youse when you come back. So I says here's dis
safe and here's me, and I'll get busy wit' it, and den Mr. Chames will