A Gentleman of Leisure
★ 10 ★

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, boss.”

“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 flâneur 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 and 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 grey 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 the Tailor and Cutter.

“’Scuse these 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 a perfect matinee idol. Have a drink?”

Spike’s eyes gleamed as he reached for the decanter. He took a seat.

“Cigar, Spike?”

“Sure. T’anks, boss.”

Jimmy lit his pipe. Spike, after a few genteel sips, threw off his restraint and finished the rest of his glass at a gulp.


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