“Nor the boy, either? Poor little half-witted fellow. Give me credit for one thing—I wanted to keep him and care for him, but, no, you robbed his mother of him and put him in the asylum. These things haunt me, Jack. Even drink will not blot them out.”
“Rot! That’s nothing but the drink. My ex-wife should have stayed in the West. She was so pretty and pure and honest that she actually led me to marry her. I hated her for that from the first.”
“Yours is coming to you, Jack, and you’ll get it good and plenty if ever her brother sets eyes on you. Those cowboys know how to shoot,” laughed Muriel meaningly.
“Don’t try to frighten me. William Hunter, or ‘Cactus Bill’ Hunter, as they called him, is dead. I had a letter telling me that he has disappeared, so I’m not afraid.”
“Maybe—and maybe not. But, if ever you two do meet, you’d better get your gun-play in first. So, then,” she continued, in a softer tone, “you want to quit your old pal? And just after my being up all night on the Bowery, helping you fleece this ‘come on.’ Not much gratitude!”
“Ah, forget it,” said Pierson roughly, changing his tone and manner suddenly, as he saw Dora returning with Loney. The young girl hastened down the steps, flushed and rosy with her hurried search.
“My father is coming. I hope we did not keep you waiting too long.”
Muriel had sat down again in the chair, and her head had fallen forward drowsily, while John, with a side look at Muriel, said to Dora:
“No, my little dear, I am repaid for the long wait by seeing you again. Don’t you ever get tired of this musty old cellar? Wouldn’t you like to live in a fine house, with servants to wait upon you, and have beautiful diamonds and clothes to wear?”
“Oh no, sir! I would not leave papa and Bennie for all the fine houses and jewels in the world. And, besides, we don’t live in the cellar. We only work here. We live upstairs.”