"My lil' Pietro he love-a da Signorina; me, I love-a her—she so good, so generosa, ah, yes!" And taking off his hat in one hand, Tony kissed the other and waved it gracefully in the air.
"Right-o, Tony!" nodded Spike. "You can let it go at that. An' say—this is me friend Geoff."
Tony gripped Mr. Ravenslee's hand and shook it.
"You one o' da bunch—one o' da boys, hey? Good-a luck." So saying, Tony nodded, flashed his white teeth again, and seizing the handles of his barrow, trundled off his peanut oven, whistling soft and shrill.
"Tony's only a guinney," Spike explained as they walked on again. "But he's white, Geoff—'n' say, he's a holy terror in a mix-up! Totes one o' them stiletto knives. I've seen him stab down into a glass full of water an' never spill a drop, which sure wants some doing."
Evening was falling, and dismal Tenth Avenue was wrapping itself in shadow, a shadow made more manifest by small lights that burned dismally in small and dingy shops, a shadow, this, wherein moving shadows jostled with lounging shoulder or elbow. As they passed a certain dark entry where divers of these vague shadows lounged, a long arm was stretched thence, and a large hand gripped Spike's shoulder.
"Why—hello, Spider," said he, halting. "What's doin'?"
"Nawthin' much, Kid—only little M—'say, who's wid you?"
"Oh, this is a friend o' mine—Geoff, dis is d' Spider!" explained Spike.
Visualised in "the Spider" Ravenslee saw a tall, slender youth, very wide in the shoulder and prodigiously long of arm and leg, and who looked at him keen-eyed from beneath a wide cap brim, while his square jaws worked with untiring industry upon a wad of chewing gum.