"So you come here, eh, Kid?" drawled Soapy, pendent cigarette smouldering. "You skinned over here t' Bud f' comfort, an' you'll sure get it, Kid—in a glass!"
"Bud's always good t' me—"
"'S right, Kid, 's right, Bud's an angel sure, though he ain't got no wings yet. Oh, Bud'll comfort ye—frequent, an' by an' by he'll take ye back t' Hermy good an' soused; you can get your own back that ways—eh, Kid? It'll sure make her sit up an' take notice when she sees ye come in reelin' an' staggerin'—eh, Kid? An' to-morrow you'll be sick mebbe, an' she'll have ter nurse ye—oh, Bud'll fix things fer ye, I guess." Spike glowered and pushed his half-emptied glass further away.
"I ain't goin' home soused!" he muttered.
"No?" said Soapy, faintly surprised. "Bud'll feel kind o' hurt, won't he?"
"I ain't goin' home soused—not for Bud nor nobody else!"
"Why, then, if I was you, Kid, I should beat it before Bud comes in."
"I guess I will," said Spike, rising.
But now was sudden uproar of voices in the street hard by, a running and trampling of feet, and, the swing doors opening, a group of men appeared, bearing among them a heavy burden; and coming to the quiet corner they laid M'Ginnis there. Battered, bloody, and torn he lay, his handsome features swollen and disfigured, his clothes dusty and dishevelled, while above him and around him men stooped and peered and whispered.
"Why, it's—it's—Bud!" stammered Spike, shrinking away from that inanimate form, "my God! It's—Bud!"