"Not much I won't!"

"Then of course I must shoot you!"

The boy stood with head up-flung and fists tight-clenched; Mr. Ravenslee
lounged in his chair with levelled pistol. So they fronted each
other--but, all at once, with a sound between a choke and a groan, the
lad covered his face.

"Go on!" he whispered hoarsely, "go on--what's keepin' you? If it's the
cops or croaking, I--I'd rather croak."

"Why?"

"'Cause if I was ever sent to--prison--it 'ud break her heart, I guess."

"Her heart?" said Mr. Ravenslee, and lowered the pistol.

"Me sister's."

"Ah--so you have a sister?" and Mr. Ravenslee sat up suddenly.

"Lots o' guys has, but there ain't a sister like mine in all N'
York--nor nowheres else."

"Who are you? What's your name?"

"Spike. Me real name's Arthur, but Arthur sounds kinder soft an' sissy;
nobody don't call me Arthur 'cept her, an' I don't mind her."