Mike laughs in his way of gentle, soft goodnature, and points where the Terror, white and senseless, bleeds thinly at nose and ear.
“The left did it,” Mike replies.
Out of his eyes the hot light is already dying. He takes a deep, deep breath, that arches his great breast and makes the muscles clutch and climb like serpents; he stretches himself by extending his arms and standing high on his toes. Meanwhile he beams pleasantly on his grizzled adherent.
“It wasn’t much,” says Mike.
“You be the coolest cove, laddy!” retorts the other in a rapt whisper. Then he towels deftly at the sweat on Mike’s forehead.
The decision has been given in Mike’s favor. And to his delight, without argument or hesitation, the loud young man of the vociferous garb comes behind the scenes and endows him with two hundred dollars.
“Say,” observes the loud young man, admiringly, “you ain’t no wonder, I don’t t’ink!”
“But how did you come to do it, Mike?” asks the good-natured baker, as Mike lingers over a midnight porterhouse at the latter’s restaurant.
“I had to, John,” says Mike, turning his innocent face on the other; “I had to win Christmas money for Mollie and little Davy.”
“And what,” said the Sour Gentleman, “became of this Mike Menares?”