And it was he who out of his own pocket had provided the purse which, as the lad’s foot crashed against the plaster a full inch above his rival’s best effort, he now handed to Spike together with a few well-chosen words.

“Murphy,” said Sam, “is the winner. After a contest conducted throughout in accordance with the best traditions of American high kicking, he has upheld the honour of the John B. Pynsent Ex and Imp and retained his title. In the absence of the boss, therefore, who has unfortunately been called away to Philadelphia and so is unable to preside at this meeting, I take much pleasure in presenting him with the guerdon of victory, this handsome dollar bill. Take it, Spike, and in after years, when you are a grey-haired{11} alderman or something, look back to this moment and say to yourself——”

{11}

Sam stopped, a little hurt. He thought he had been speaking rather well, yet already his audience was walking out on him. Spike Murphy, indeed, was running.

“Say to yourself——”

“When you are at leisure, Samuel,” observed a voice behind him, “I should be glad of a word with you in my office.”

Sam turned.

“Oh, hullo, uncle,” he said.

He coughed; Mr. Pynsent coughed.

“I thought you had gone to Philadelphia,” said Sam.

“Indeed?” said Mr. Pynsent.

He made no further remark, but proceeded sedately to his room, from which he emerged again a moment later with a patient look of inquiry on his face.

“Come here, Sam,” he said. “Who,” he asked, pointing, “is this?”

Sam peeped through the doorway and perceived, tilted back in a swivel chair, a long, lean man of repellent aspect. His large feet rested comfortably on the desk, his head hung sideways and his mouth was open. From his mouth, which was of generous proportions, there came a gurgling snore.

“Who,” repeated Mr. Pynsent, “is this gentleman?”

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