IN WHICH SOAPY TAKES A HAND

O’Rourke’s was full:  its long bar, shaped something like the letter J, supported many lounging arms and elbows; its burnished foot-rail was scraped by boots of many shapes and sizes; its heavy air, thick with cigarette smoke, hummed with many voices.  In one corner, a remote corner where few ventured to penetrate, Soapy leaned, as pallid and noncommittal as ever, while Spike poured out to him the story of his woes.

“She drove me out, Soapy!  She drove me away from her!” he repeated for the hundredth time.  The boy was unnaturally flushed and bright of eye, and his voice was as shaky as the hand which fidgeted with his whisky glass; and the sense of his wrongs was great and growing greater with every sip.

“She told me t’ leave her!  She drove me away from her—­”

“So you come here, eh, Kid?” drawled Soapy, pendent cigarette smouldering.  “You skinned over here t’ Bud f’ comfort, an’ you’ll sure get it, Kid—­in a glass!”

“Bud’s always good t’ me—­”

“’S right, Kid, ’s right, Bud’s an angel sure, though he ain’t got no wings yet.  Oh, Bud’ll comfort ye—­frequent, an’ by an’ by he’ll take ye back t’ Hermy good an’ soused; you can get your own back that ways—­eh, Kid?  It’ll sure make her sit up an’ take notice when she sees ye come in reelin’ an’ staggerin’—­eh, Kid?  An’ to-morrow you’ll be sick mebbe, an’ she’ll have ter nurse ye—­oh, Bud’ll fix things fer ye, I guess.”  Spike glowered and pushed his half-emptied glass further away.

“I ain’t goin’ home soused!” he muttered.

“No?” said Soapy, faintly surprised.  “Bud’ll feel kind o’ hurt, won’t he?”

“I ain’t goin’ home soused—­not for Bud nor nobody else!”

“Why, then, if I was you, Kid, I should beat it before Bud comes in.”

“I guess I will,” said Spike, rising.

But now was sudden uproar of voices in the street hard by, a running and trampling of feet, and, the swing doors opening, a group of men appeared, bearing among them a heavy burden; and coming to the quiet corner they laid M’Ginnis there.  Battered, bloody, and torn he lay, his handsome features swollen and disfigured, his clothes dusty and dishevelled, while above him and around him men stooped and peered and whispered.

“Why, it’s—­it’s—­Bud!” stammered Spike, shrinking away from that inanimate form, “my God!  It’s—­Bud!”

“’S right, Kid!” nodded Soapy imperturbably, hands in pockets and, though his voice sounded listless as ever, his eyes gleamed evilly, and the dangling cigarette quivered and stirred.

“Ain’t—­dead, is he?” some one questioned.

“Dead—­not much!” answered Soapy, “guess it’s goin’ to take more ’n that t’ make Bud a stiff ‘un.  Besides, Bud ain’t goin’ t’ die that way, no, not—­that way, I reckon.  Dead?  Watch this!” So saying, he reached Spike’s half-emptied glass from the bar and, not troubling to stoop, poured the raw spirit down upon M’Ginnis’s pale, blood-smirched face.