“Now den, boss!” he said, between his teeth.

Jimmy extended his hand towards him and unclasped it. Six cartridges lay in the palm.

“Why worry?” he said. “Sit down and let us talk of life.”

“It’s a fair cop, boss,” said the man resignedly.

“Away with melancholy,” said Jimmy. “I’m not going to call the police. You can go whenever you like.”

The man stared.

“I mean it,” said Jimmy. “What’s the trouble? I’ve no grievance. I wish, though, if you haven’t any important engagement, you would stop and talk awhile first.”

A broad grin spread itself across the other’s face. There was something singularly engaging about him when he grinned.

“Gee! If youse ain’t goin’ to call de cops, I’ll talk till de chickens roost again.”

“Talking, however,” said Jimmy, “is dry work. Are you a teetotaller?”

“What’s dat? Me? On your way, boss!”

“Then you’ll find a pretty decent whisky in that decanter. Help yourself. I think you’ll like it.”

A musical gurgling, followed by a contented sigh, showed that the statement had been tested and proved correct.

“Cigar?” asked Jimmy.

“Me fer dat,” assented his visitor.

“Take a handful.”

“I eats dem alive,” said the marauder jovially, gathering in the spoils.

Jimmy crossed his legs.

“By the way,” he said, “let there be no secrets between us. What’s your name? Mine is Pitt—James Willoughby Pitt.”

“Mullins is my monaker, boss. Spike, dey calls me.”

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