George had not been able to speak until now. He sat up, pulled doggedly a moment at his cigarette, and said in a very sulky tone:
“Who told you I was here?”
Halloran would have been glad to answer him, but as it fell out no reply was necessary. For just as he was pausing to light his pipe a step was heard in the passage and a wizened-faced boy appeared in the outer circle of the candle-light.
It was Jimmie, eyeing Halloran with distrust, glancing apologetically at George, more disturbed, in fact, than Halloran had yet seen him. To him now George turned a reproachful face.
“I never done it, George,” said Jimmie. “I'd a-busted first. He went around to old Hoffman and he put him onto my uncle. I see him go in there and I followed him up.”
“That's right, George,” Halloran put in by way of seconding Jimmie. “We couldn't get a word out of him. It was your mother that sent me to Hoffman. But I've come down to talk with you, and I'm not sorry that Jimmie is here. Now, what's the trouble? Tell me about it; and then I will see what we can do for you.”
The two boys looked at each other. George had been told so often by certain Settlement workers never to smoke, never to read bad books, never to be seen in company with beer bottles, he had supposed that of course these things would be the first subjects under discussion; and the omission disconcerted him. Jimmie, meanwhile, being the shrewder of the two, was signaling him to go ahead and spit it out. So he began, in a blundering, sullen sort of a way; stumbled, blushed and stopped. Finally Jimmie had to take it up.
“You see, it's just this way. George's folks was getting down pretty close to the boards, and they was the rent coming, and George he had his week's pay, but it wasn't enough, so I just told him”—very patronizing here, was Jimmie, as became a young capitalist who had once clasped the hand of Captain Anson—“I told him to give it to me and I'd put it up on the Washington game, with a little wad of my own. It was an easy mark, 'cause the Washingtons were tail-enders, and I had hold of their mascot, and he was willing to put up even. It was like taking the money out of his pocket, but a man can't throw away a chance like that—and then I'll be damned if Billy Connors didn't up and throw the game.”
“He's a hell of a pitcher,” was George's comment, spoken with a sidelong glance at Halloran.
“Never you mind,” said Jimmie, “Watson 'll never sign him again, after a trick like that.”