“Not me.”
“Nor usin’ de what’s-its-name blow-pipe?”
“I have sold my oxyacetylene blow-pipe, given away my anaesthetics, and am going to turn over a new leaf and settle down as a respectable citizen.”
Spike gasped. His world had fallen about his ears. His excursion with Jimmy, the master cracksman, in New York had been the highest and proudest memory of his life, and now that he had met him again in London, he had looked forward to a long and prosperous partnership in crime. He was content that his own share in the partnership should be humble. It was enough for him to be connected, however humbly, with such a master. He had looked upon the richness of London, and he had said with Blucher, “What a city to loot!”
And here was his idol shattering his visions with a word.
“Have another drink, Spike,” said the Lost Leader sympathetically. “It’s a shock to you, I expect.”
“I t’ought, boss——”
“I know, I know. These are life’s tragedies. I’m very sorry for you; but it can’t be helped.”
Spike sat silent, with a long face. Jimmy slapped him on the shoulder.
“Cheer up,” he said. “How do you know that living honestly may not be splendid fun? Numbers of people do it, you know, and enjoy themselves tremendously. You must give it a trial, Spike.”