-hall entrances.

Bradley, with his eyes in front of him, walked along silently. Upon
MacQuigan's young face had settled the black scowl again; and it grew
blacker as he glanced, now and then, at the man beside him. Behind
them came a knot of his cronies--and some one called his name.

MacQuigan halted suddenly.

"Well, so long, Martin," he said gruffly. "I'll be up a little later."

Bradley's hand went out and linked in the other's arm.

"Better come on home, Reddy," he said, with one of his rare smiles.

"Later," Reddy flung out.

"Better make it now," said Bradley quietly.

The group behind had come up with them now, and, crowding into Faro
Dave's place, paused a moment in the entrance to absorb the situation.

"Be a good boy, Reddy, and do as you're told," one of them sang out.

Reddy whirled on Bradley, the hot blood flushing his face.

"I wish you'd mind your own blasted business!" he flared. "I'm blamed
good and sick of you tagging me. This isn't the first time. You make
me weary! The trouble with you is that you don't know anything but the
everlasting grouch you carry around. You're a funeral! You're a
tight-wad. Everybody says so. Nobody ever heard of you spending a
cent. Go on--beat it--leave me alone!"

Bradley's face whitened a little, but the smile was still on his lips.

"Better draw your fire, Reddy; there's no need of getting hot," he
said. "Come on home; you know what'll happen if you don't; and you
know what Regan told you back there in the roundhouse."

"So you heard that, eh?" Reddy shot at him. "I thought you did; and
you thought you'd fool me by hanging around there, playing innocent, to
walk home with me, eh?"

"I wasn't trying to fool you," Bradley answered; and his hand went now
to the wiper's shoulder.

"Let go!" snarled Reddy. "I'll go home when I feel like it!"

Bradley's hand closed a little tighter.

"Don't make a fool of yourself, Reddy," he said gravely. "You'll----"

And that was all. MacQuigan wasn't much more than a boy, not much more
than that, and hot-headed--and his chums were looking on. He freed
himself from Bradley's hold--with a smash of his fist in Bradley's face.

Fight? No; there wasn't any fight. There was a laugh--from old John
MacQuigan, who had been trailing the young bloods up the street. And
as Bradley, after staggering back from the unexpected blow, recovered
himself, Reddy MacQuigan, followed by old John, was disappearing int