"But say—whatcher want to go wi' me for? What's yer game? Put me wise."
"I am filled with desire to breathe awhile the salubrious air of Hell's Kitchen; will you take me?" Now as he spoke, beholding the boy's staring amaze, Mr. Ravenslee's frowning brows relaxed, his firm, clean-shaven lips quivered, and all at once curved up into a smile of singular sweetness—a smile before which the hopelessness and fear died out of the boy's long-lashed eyes, his whole strained attitude vanished, and he smiled also—though perhaps a little tremulously.
"Will you take me, Spike?"
"You bet I will!" exclaimed the boy, his blue eyes shining, "and I'll do my best to show you I—I ain't so bad as I—as I seem—an' we'll shake on it if you like." And Spike advanced with his hand outstretched, then paused, suddenly abashed, and drooping his head, turned away. "I—I forgot," he muttered, "—I'm—you said I was a—thief!"
"You meant to be!" said Mr. Ravenslee, and rising, he stretched himself and glanced at his watch.
"Are you coming wi' me, sir?" enquired Spike, regarding Mr. Ravenslee's length and breadth with quick, appraising eyes.
"I surely am!"
"But—but not in them glad rags!" and Spike pointed to Mr. Ravenslee's exquisitely tailored garments.
"Ah—to be sure!" nodded their wearer. "We'll soon fix that," and he touched the electric bell.
"Say," cried Spike, starting forward in sudden terror, "you—you ain't goin' to give me away?"