The fly in Ikey’s ointment (thrice welcome, pat trope!) was Chunk McGowan.

Mr. McGowan was also striving to catch the bright smiles tossed about by Rosy.  But he was no outfielder as Ikey was; he picked them off the bat.  At the same time he was Ikey’s friend and customer, and often dropped in at the Blue Light Drug Store to have a bruise painted with iodine or get a cut rubber-plastered after a pleasant evening spent along the Bowery.

One afternoon McGowan drifted in in his silent, easy way, and sat, comely, smooth-faced, hard, indomitable, good-natured, upon a stool.

“Ikey,” said he, when his friend had fetched his mortar and sat opposite, grinding gum benzoin to a powder, “get busy with your ear.  It’s drugs for me if you’ve got the line I need.”

Ikey scanned the countenance of Mr. McGowan for the usual evidences of conflict, but found none.

“Take your coat off,” he ordered.  “I guess already that you have been stuck in the ribs with a knife.  I have many times told you those Dagoes would do you up.”

Mr. McGowan smiled.  “Not them,” he said.  “Not any Dagoes.  But you’ve located the diagnosis all right enough—­it’s under my coat, near the ribs.  Say!  Ikey—­Rosy and me are goin’ to run away and get married to-night.”

Ikey’s left forefinger was doubled over the edge of the mortar, holding it steady.  He gave it a wild rap with the pestle, but felt it not.  Meanwhile Mr. McGowan’s smile faded to a look of perplexed gloom.

“That is,” he continued, “if she keeps in the notion until the time comes.  We’ve been layin’ pipes for the getaway for two weeks.  One day she says she will; the same evenin’ she says nixy.  We’ve agreed on to-night, and Rosy’s stuck to the affirmative this time for two whole days.  But it’s five hours yet till the time, and I’m afraid she’ll stand me up when it comes to the scratch.”

“You said you wanted drugs,” remarked Ikey.

Mr. McGowan looked ill at ease and harassed—­a condition opposed to his usual line of demeanour.  He made a patent-medicine almanac into a roll and fitted it with unprofitable carefulness about his finger.

“I wouldn’t have this double handicap make a false start to-night for a million,” he said.  “I’ve got a little flat up in Harlem all ready, with chrysanthemums on the table and a kettle ready to boil.  And I’ve engaged a pulpit pounder to be ready at his house for us at 9.30.  It’s got to come off.  And if Rosy don’t change her mind again!”—­Mr. McGowan ceased, a prey to his doubts.

“I don’t see then yet,” said Ikey, shortly, “what makes it that you talk of drugs, or what I can be doing about it.”

“Old man Riddle don’t like me a little bit,” went on the uneasy suitor, bent upon marshalling his arguments.  “For a week he hasn’t let Rosy step outside the door with me.  If it wasn’t for losin’ a boarder they’d have bounced me long ago.  I’m makin’ $20 a week and she’ll never regret flyin’ the coop with Chunk McGowan.”