"Who's there?"
"Why, this is me, Bud."
"What th' hell are ye hangin' around out here for?" questioned M'Ginnis suspiciously.
"Countin' th' stars, Bud, an' doin' th' Providence act—midst of life we are in death' gag—"
"Aw, cut out that slush an' hike along t' Rayner's wi' me; I got a job for you an' Heine—"
Side by side they crossed the gloomy, open lot until they were come beneath a lamp at a certain bleak street corner. Here Soapy paused and held out his hand, open to the light.
"This don't happen t' be your ring, Bud?" he enquired lazily.
M'Ginnis glanced at the ring upon that narrow palm, a ring wrought into the semblance of two hands that clasped each other, looked closer, drew in his breath suddenly, then straightened his shoulders and threw back his head.
"No!" he answered, frowning into Soapy's imperturbable face, "what th' hell made you think it was?"
"Why, ye see, Bud, it happens t' have your name scratched inside it, that's all. But if it ain't yours, it ain't!" And speaking, Soapy tossed the ring back over his shoulder far out into the open lot.