"Don't you help her?" demanded Mr. Ravenslee.

"Help her--why, y' see, Geoff, I--I ain't in a steady job yet. But I
do my best an'--why, there's d' kettle boilin' at last!" saying which,
Spike turned and vanished again, leaving Mr. Ravenslee still staring
down at the pictured face. Presently he sank back in his chair, and,
lolling thus, looked sleepily at the opposite wall but saw it not, nor
heard the clatter of cups and saucers from the kitchen accompanied by
Spike's windy whistling; and, as he lounged thus, he spoke softly, and
to himself.

"An object!" he murmured.

"Hey, Geoff," Spike called, "this ain't goin' to be no à la carte, hock
an' claret feedin' match, nor yet no table-de-hoty eat-fest, but if you
can do in some bacon an' eggs, you're on!"

"Why, then," said Mr. Ravenslee, rising and yawning, "count me decidedly
'on.'"

"Then d' you mind givin' me a hand wid d' coffee?"

"Delighted!" and forthwith Mr. Ravenslee stepped out into the kitchen;
and there, in a while, upon a rickety table covered with a greasy
newspaper, they ate and drank with great relish and gusto, insomuch
that Mr. Ravenslee marvelled at his own appetite.

"Say, Geoff," enquired Spike as hunger waned, "how long are you stoppin'
at Mulligan's--a week?"