"The gentleman's on business, Jake," his host repeated.
"Give me some whisky," the young man mumbled.
The Irishman shaded his eyes.
"Holy Moses! why, you've finished that bottle!" he exclaimed.
"It's like water," the fugitive replied in a hot whisper, "I drink and I feel nothing; I taste nothing—I forget nothing! Give me something stronger."
He tossed off without hesitation the tumbler half full of whisky which his guardian fetched him. Then he came out.
"I'm sick of this," he declared. "I'll sit at your table. It's no use talking to me of jobs," he went on. "I couldn't get out of here. I made for the docks, but they headed me off. They know where I am. They'll have me sooner or later."
"Yes, they'll have you right enough," the Irishman assented; "but if there was any chance in the world, this gent could give it to you. He's got a job he wants done up amongst the swells in Fifth Avenue, and there's money enough in it to buy Anna herself, if you want her. Anna's our real toff down here," he explained, turning to Fischer, "and all the boys are crazy about her."
Jake shook his head, unimpressed. He fixed his eyes upon Fischer, moistened his lips a little, and spoke in a sort of croaky whisper.
"Money's no use to me," he said, "nor women either—I'm through with them. You know what I done? I killed my girl. That's what I'm going to the chair for. But if I could get out of this, I'd do your job. I'm kind of hating people. I can't get my girl's face out of my mind. Perhaps if I did your job I'd have another one to think about."