★ 22 ★::A Gentleman of Leisure
How Two of a Trade did not Agree
“One hundred t’ousand plunks,” Spike, at them. “I says to meself, ‘De ain’t got no time to be gettin’ after himself. He’s too days jollyin’ along de swells. So it’s up to me,’ I says, ‘’cos de boss’ll be to deat’, all right, all right, if we can away dem.’ So I——”
Jimmy gave with an energy which his follower. The of the had him much as a in the parts about the might have done. But now, as Spike would have said, he up with his breath. The slowly from the other’s as he listened. Not in the Bowery, full as it was of friends, had he to such a summing-up of his and deficiencies.
“Boss!” he protested.
“That’s just a outline,” said Jimmy, for breath. “I can’t do you like this. You’re too and overwhelming.”
“But, boss, what’s eatin’ you? Ain’t tickled?”
“Tickled!” Jimmy the air. “Tickled! You lunatic! Can’t you see what you’ve done?”
“I’ve got dem,” said Spike, mind was not of new ideas. It to him that Jimmy missed the main point.
“Didn’t I tell you there was nothing doing when you wanted to take those the other day?”
Spike’s cleared. As he had suspected, Jimmy had missed the point.
“Why, say, boss, yes—sure. But was little t’ings. Of course, wouldn’t for swipin’ chicken-feed like dem. But is different. Dese di’monds is boids. It’s one hundred thousand dese.”
“Spike!” said Jimmy, with painful calm.
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“Huh?”
“Will you for a moment?”
“Sure.”
“I know it’s hopeless. To an idea into your one wants a proper outfit—drills, blasting-powder, and so on. But there’s just a chance, perhaps, if I talk slowly. Has it to you, Spike—my bonny, blue-eyed Spike—that every other man, more or less, in this home of England is a who has to watch you like a lynx? Do you that your past is a safeguard? I you think that these will say to themselves, ‘Now, shall we suspect? We must out Spike Mullins, of course, he naturally wouldn’t of doing such a thing. It can’t be dear old Spike who’s got the stuff.’”
“But, boss,” Spike brightly. “I ain’t! Dat’s right—I ain’t got it. Youse has!”
Jimmy looked at him with admiration. After all, there was a about Spike’s methods of which was when you got used to it. The of it was that it did not fit in with practical, life. Under different conditions—say, at Colney Hatch—he the Bowery boy being a companion. How pleasantly, for instance, such as that last would while away the of a cell!
“But, laddie,” he said, with affection, “listen once more. Reflect! Ponder! Does it not into your that we are, as it were, in this house in the minds of persons? Are we not by Mr. McEachern, for instance, to be hand in hand like brothers? Do you that Mr. McEachern, with his sleuth-hound over their cigars, will have been on this point? I think not. How do you to that sleuth, Spike, who, I may mention once again, has moved more than two yards away from me since his arrival?”
An Spike.
“Sure, boss, dat’s all right!”
“All right, is it? Well, well! What makes you think it is all right?”
“Why, say, boss, is out of business.” A his face. “It’s funny, boss! Gee, it’s got a skinned! Listen! Deyse an’ each other.”
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Jimmy his view. Even in Colney Hatch this of thing would be received. Genius must walk alone. Spike would have to along without any of meeting a spirit, a fellow-being in with his brain-processes.
“Dat’s right,” Spike. “Leastways, it ain’t.”
“No, no,” said Jimmy soothingly. “I understand.”
“It’s way, boss. One of has an’ de mug. Dey had a scrap, each t’inking de guy was after de jools, an’ not knowin’ was sleuts, an’ now one of dem’s an’ taken de off, an’”—there were of in his eyes—“an’ locked him into de coal-cellar.”
“What on earth do you mean?”
Spike helplessly.
“Listen, boss! It’s way. Gee, it de band. When it’s all dark, ’cos of de comin’ on, I’m in de dressin’-room chasin’ around for de jool-box, and just as I a line on it—gee!— I a de passage, very soft, for de door. Was I to de bad? Dat’s right. I says to meself, ‘Here’s one of de what’s and got wise to me, an’ he’s comin’ in to put de on me,’ so I up quick, an’ I a coitain. Dere’s a at de of de room. Dere’s an t’ings hangin’ it. I in dere, and waitin’ for de to come in, ’cos den, you see, I’m goin’ to try an’ he can see who I am—it’s dark ’cos of de storm—an’ him one on de point of de jaw, an’ den, while he’s an’ out, de soivants’ hall.”
“Yes?” said Jimmy.
“Well, guy, he to de door and opens it, and I’m just gettin’ for one of speed when jumps out from de room on de de passage—you know de room—anodder guy, an’ de on de mug. Say, wouldn’t make you hadn’t gone to de circus? Honest, it was Coney Island.”
“Go on. What then?”
“Day to scrappin’ good and hard. Dey couldn’t see me, an’ I couldn’t see dem, but I bumpin’ about and sluggin’ each to de band. And by and by one of de puts de to de bad, so he goes and takes de count; and I a click. And I know what is. It’s one of de has put de on de gazebo.”
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“Call them A and B,” Jimmy.
“Den I him—de mug—strike a light, ’cos it’s dark ’cos of de storm, an’ he says, ‘Got youse, have I?’ he says. ‘I’ve had my on you, t’inkin’ was up to somet’ing of kind. I’ve watchin’ youse!’ I de voice. It’s what calls himself Sir Tummas’s vally. And de odder——”
Jimmy into a of laughter.
“Don’t, Spike! This is more than man was meant to stand. Do you to tell me that it is my bright, brainy, friend Galer who has been and locked in the coal-cellar?”
“Sure, dat’s right,” he said.
“It’s a judgment,” said Jimmy delightedly—“that’s what it is. No man has a right to be such a as Galer. It isn’t decent.”
There had been moments when McEachern’s employé had Jimmy with an odd of fury, a of pride, almost to the of making him wish that he have been the McEachern him. Never in his life had he sat still under a challenge, and this had been one. Behind the he had always the self-satisfied of McEachern. If there had been anything about the man from Dodson’s he have him; but there was not. Years of had left Spike with a of as of the law. He the most disguise. But in the case of Galer Jimmy the detective.
“Go on,” he said.
Spike proceeded.
“Well, de mug, de one and out on de de on——”
“Galer, in fact,” said Jimmy. “Handsome, Galer!”
“Sure. Well, he’s too catchin’ up his breat’ to shoot it swift, but after he’s doin’ de deep-breathin’ for a while he says, ‘You mutt,’ he says, ‘youse is to de bad. You’re a break, you have. Dat’s right. Surest t’ing you know.’ He puts it different, but dat’s what he means. ‘I’m a sleut,’ he says. ‘Take t’ings off!’—meanin’ de irons. Does de mug, de gazebo, give him de eye? Not so’s you notice it. He him de ha-ha. He says dat’s de dat’s to him. ‘Tell it to Sweeney!’ he says. ‘I youse. You into de house as a guest, when 145youse is after de loidy’s jools.’ At de mug, Galer, under de collar. ‘I’m a sure ’nough sleut,’ he says. ‘I into house at de special of Mr. McEachern, de American gent.’ De hands him de again. ‘Tell it to de King of Denmark,’ he says. ‘Dis de limit. Youse has for ten men,’ he says. ‘Show me to Mr. McEachern,’ says Galer. ‘He’ll——crouch,’ is it?”
“Vouch?” Jimmy. “Meaning give the hand to.”
“Dat’s right—vouch. I what he meant at de time. ‘He’ll for me,’ he says. Dat puts him all right, he t’inks; but no, he’s still in Dutch, ’cos de says, ‘Nix on dat! I ain’t goin’ to around de house youse, lookin’ for Mr. McEachern. It’s for de coal-cellar, me man, an’ we’ll see what has to say when I makes me report to Sir Tummas.’ ‘Well, dat’s to de good,’ says Galer. ‘Tell Sir Tummas. I’ll to him.’ ‘Not me!’ says de vally. ‘Sir Tummas has a hard evening’s him, jollyin’ along de what’s comin’ to see stoige-piece dey’re actin’. I ain’t goin’ to worry him till he’s good and ready. To de coal-cellar for yours! G’wan!’ and off goes! And I again, de jools, and here.”
“Have you of justice, Spike?” he asked. “This is it. But in this hour of and good will we must not forget——”
Spike interrupted.
Beaming with at the of his narrative, he to point out the that were to be therefrom.
“So see, boss,” he said, “it’s all to de merry. When for de and gone, dey’ll t’ink Galer guy dem. Dey won’t t’ink of us.”
Jimmy looked at him gravely.
“Of course,” said he. “What a you are, Spike! Galer was just opening the door from the outside, by your account, when the valet-man at him. Naturally they’ll think that he took the jewels, as they won’t them on him. A man who can open a locked safe through a closed door is just the of who would be able to of the while about the with the valet. His not having the will make the case all the against him. And what will make them still more that he is the is that he 146really is a detective. Spike, you ought to be in some of a home, you know.”
The Bowery boy looked disturbed.
“I didn’t t’ink of dat, boss,” he admitted.
“Of not. One can’t think of everything. Now, if you will just hand me those diamonds, I will put them where they belong.”
“Put back, boss!”
“What else would you propose? I’d you to do it, only I don’t think is much in your line.”
Spike over the jewels. The was the boss, and what he said went. But his was tragic, telling of blighted.
Jimmy took the necklace with something of a thrill. He was a of jewels, and a him much as a picture the artistic. He ran the diamonds through his fingers, then them again, more closely this time.
Spike him with a return of hope. It to him that the was wavering. Perhaps, now that he had actually the jewels, he would it to give them up. To Spike a diamond necklace of was the of so many “plunks”; but he that there were men, otherwise sane, who valued a for its own sake.
“It’s a of a necklace, boss,” he encouragingly.
“It is,” said Jimmy. “In its way I’ve anything much better. Sir Thomas will be to have it back.”
“Den you’re going to put it back, boss?”
“I am,” said Jimmy. “I’ll do it just the theatricals; there should be a then. There’s one good thing—this afternoon’s will have the air of sleuth-hounds a little.”
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