Paper 'n' pencil, Bud--get busy an' I'll sashay over an' send it off for
ye--t'night."

During Soapy's unusually long speech, M'Ginnis sat staring at him under
frowning brows, but now he turned and scowled down at the sheet of
paper, picked up the pencil, laid it by again and sat opening and
shutting his big hands, while Soapy, lighting another cigarette, watched
him furtively. When at last he spoke, his voice was thick, and he didn't
lift his scowling gaze.

"Send that kid Larry t' me, an' say--you don't have t' come back."

"All right, Bud, all right--only you'd best send two telegrams t' make
sure--one t' Fift' Av, an' one t' his place up th' river. S' long,
Buddy!"

Some fifteen minutes later, the boy Larry, stepping out of O'Rourke's,
was swung to the wall in Soapy's grip.

"Aw--say, cheese it now! Is that you, Soapy?"

"'S right, my bucko. Fork out that telegram--quick!"

"Aw, say, what yer mean--'n' say, Bud told me to hustle, 'n' say--"

"Dig it out--quick!" said Soapy, the dangling cigarette glowing
fiercely. "I want it--see?"

"But say--" whimpered Larry, "what'll Bud say--"

"Nothin'! Bud ain't goin' t' know. You take this instead--take it!" And
Soapy thrust another folded paper into the boy's limp hand, who took it
whimpering.

"Bud tol' me t' bring it back."

"Well, you tell him you lost it."

"Not much--I'll skin right back an' tell him you pinched it."

"You won't, my sport, you won't!" said Soapy, and speaking, moved
suddenly; and the boy, uttering a gasp of terror, shrank cowering with
the muzzle of Soapy's deadly weapon against the pit of his stomach. "You
ain't goin' t' say a word t' Bud nor nobody else, are ye, Larry boy, are
ye?"

"No--no--"

"Because if ye ever did, old sport, I should give it ye there--right
there in the tum-tum, see? Now chase off, an' see ye get them addresses
right. S'long, Larry boy, be good now!" When the boy had scudded away,
Soapy opened the paper and scanned the words of M'Ginnis's telegram and,
being alone, smiled as he glanced through it.

"You got th' Kid, Bud," he murmured, "you got th' Kid--but if th' Kid
gets the guy Geoff, why--I've sure got you, Bud--got ye sure as hell,
Bud!"

CHAPTER XXXII

OF HARMONY AND DISCORD

Mr. Brimberly, comfortably ensconced in Young R.'s favourite armchair,
nodded ponderously and beat time to the twang of Mr. Jenkins's banjo,
whereto Mr. Stevens sang in a high-pitched and rather shaky tenor the
late