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He had almost dozed off when a new voice cut through the murmur and woke him. It was a voice he knew, and the accent was a familiar accent.

“Gents, excuse me.”

He looked up. The mists of sleep shredded away. A ragged youth with a crop of fiery red hair was standing in the doorway, regarding the occupants of the shelter with a grin, half whimsical, half defiant.

Jimmy recognized him. It was Spike Mullins.

“Excuse me,” said Spike Mullins, “is dere any gent in dis bunch of professional beauts wants to give a poor orphan dat suffers from a painful toist something to drink? Gents is courteously requested not to speak all in a crowd.”

“Shet that blanky door,” said the mummy cabman sourly.

“And ’op it,” added his late opponent. “We don’t want none of your sort ’ere.”

“Den you ain’t my long-lost brudders, after all,” said the newcomer regretfully. “I t’ought youse didn’t look handsome enough for dat. Good night to youse, gents.”

“Shet that door, can’t yer, when I’m tellin’ yer!” said the mummy, with increased asperity.

Spike was reluctantly withdrawing when Jimmy rose.

“One moment,” he said.

Never in his life had Jimmy failed to stand by a friend in need. Spike was not, perhaps, exactly a friend, but even an acquaintance could rely on Jimmy when down in the world. And Spike was manifestly in that condition.

A look of surprise came into the Bowery boy’s face, followed by one of stolid woodenness. He took the sovereign which Jimmy held out to him with a muttered word of thanks, and shuffled out of the room.

“Can’t see what you wanted to give him anything for,” said Lord Dreever. “Chap’ll only spend it getting tight.”

“Oh, he reminded me of a man I used to know.”

“Did he? Barnum’s what-is-it, I should think,” said his lordship. “Shall we be moving?”

★ 10 ★ Jimmy Adopts a Lame Dog

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