"It's your compliments wat's ailin' him now," answered Jimmie. "Yer got his nine dollars last Tuesday night, and now he's dyin'. I seen yer Ralph goin' ter school wid new shoes and rubbers dis mornin', an' I'm wearin' yer compliments," said the boy, holding up one of his feet encased in a worn-out lady's shoe. "I promised Pa dat I'd take care of Ma an' der kids, and we don't need no booze ter help us, not us."
Jimmie ducked and dodged out of the door just in time to escape a soaking wet bar towel the saloon-man had thrown at him, and at a single bound jumped to the middle of the sidewalk just in time to collide with Bill Cook.
"Hello Bill," he said. "Why ain't yer workin'? Drunk agin? Gee! you'll be seein' 'em agin. Der las' time yer was crazier den a bed bug."
"You be d——!" said Bill. "Guess I'm all right. Only had three drinks. You's is gittin' too good for this neck o' woods. Yer orter move up on der boulevard amongst der bloods."
"Don't Ma do washin' up dere now, smarty? We got friends up dere; see? Why don't yer come over an' see Pa? He's dyin'."
"Go on!" said Bill. "Ye don't mean it! Kin I see him?"
"Sure, come on."
Bill staggered into Fagin's and took two more big drinks and then followed Jimmie across the street. He was badly intoxicated, but the sight of Moore's pinched features and fever-lighted eyes nearly brought him to his sober senses.
Bill was rough and wicked; but his heart within was almost as tender as a babe's. Drink was his worst trouble, and when he was sober he was rather a decent sort of fellow. His effort to appear at ease and say something encouraging to Moore was painful. He stammered and hawed and finally said, "It's all off, Bob; I can't make no speech. Let 'er go t' 'ell."
He pulled up the box, sat down at the bedside and began to cry. The sick man stretched forth his emaciated hand, and, placing it on Bill's head, said: