“Didn’t I tell you there was nothing doing when you wanted to take
those things the other day?”
Spike’s face cleared. As he had suspected, Jimmy had missed the
point.
“Why, say, boss, yes. Sure! But dose was little, dinky t’ings. Of
course, youse wouldn’t stand fer swipin’ chicken-feed like dem. But
dese is different. Dese di’monds is boids. It’s one hundred t’ousand
plunks fer dese.”
“Spike,” said Jimmy with painful calm.
“Huh?”
“Will you listen for a moment?”
“Sure.”
“I know it’s practically hopeless. To get an idea into your head,
one wants a proper outfit–drills, blasting-powder, and so on. But
there’s just a chance, perhaps, if I talk slowly. Has it occurred to
you, Spike, my bonny, blue-eyed Spike, that every other man, more or
less, in this stately home of England, is a detective who has
probably received instructions to watch you like a lynx? Do you
imagine that your blameless past is a sufficient safeguard? I
suppose you think that these detectives will say to themselves,
‘Now, whom shall we suspect? We must leave out Spike Mullins, of
course, because he naturally wouldn’t dream of doing such a thing.
It can’t be dear old Spike who’s got the stuff.'”
“But, boss,” interposed Spike brightly, “I ain’t! Dat’s right. I
ain’t got it. Youse has!”
Jimmy looked at the speaker with admiration. After all, there was a
breezy delirium about Spike’s methods of thought that was rather
stimulating when you got used to it. The worst of it was that it did
not fit in with practical, everyday life. Under different
conditions–say, during convivial evenings at Bloomingdale–he could
imagine the Bowery boy being a charming companion. How pleasantly,
for instance, such remarks as that last would while away the
monotony of a padded cell!
“But, laddie,” he said with steely affection, “listen once more.
Reflect! Ponder! Does it not seep into your consciousness that we
are, as it were, subtly connected in this house in the minds of
certain bad persons? Are we not imagined by Mr. McEachern, for
instance, to be working hand-in-hand like brothers? Do you fancy
that Mr. McEachern, chatting with his tame sleuth-hound over their
cigars, will have been reticent on this point? I think not. How do
you propose to baffle that gentlemanly sleuth, Spike, who, I may
mention once again, has rarely moved more than two yards away from
me since his arrival?”
An involuntary chuckle escaped Spike.
“Sure, boss, dat’s all right.”
“All right, is it? Well, well! What makes you think it is all
right?”
“Why, say, boss, dose sleut’s is out of business.” A merry grin
split Spike’s face. “It’s funny, boss. Gee! It’s got a circus
skinned! Listen. Dey’s bin an’ arrest each other.”
Jimmy moodily revised his former view. Even in Bloomingdale, this
sort of thing would be coldly received. Genius must ever walk alone.
Spike would have to get along without hope of meeting a kindred
spirit, another fellow-being in tune with his brain-processes.
“Dat’s right,” chuckled Spike. “Leastways, it ain’t.”
“No, no,” said Jimmy, soothingly. ” I quite understand.”
“It’s dis way, boss. One of dem has bin an’ arrest de odder mug. Dey
had a scrap, each t’inkin’ de odder guy was after de jools, an’ not
knowin’ dey was bot’ sleut’s, an’ now one of dem’s bin an’ taken de
odder off, an'”–there were tears of innocent joy in Spike’s eyes–
“an’ locked him into de coal-cellar.”
“What on earth do you mean?”
Spike giggled helplessly.
“Listen, boss. It’s dis way. Gee! It beat de band! When it’s all
dark ‘cos of de storm comin’ on, I’m in de dressin’-room, chasin’
around fer de jool-box, an’ just as I gits a line on it, gee! I
hears a footstep comin’ down de passage, very soft, straight fer de
door. Was I to de bad? Dat’s right. I says to meself, here’s one of
de sleut’ guys what’s bin and got wise to me, an’ he’s comin’ in to
put de grip on me. So, I gits up quick, an’ I hides behind a
coitain. Dere’s a coitain at de side of de room. Dere’s dude suits
an’ t’ings hangin’ behind it. I chases meself in dere, and stands