"You ain't sore with me, are you, Geoff?"

"Sore with you?"

"I mean, because I--I didn't take your money?"

Here Mr. Ravenslee turned to glance down at Spike and clap a hand upon
his shoulder.

"No," he answered, "I'm not sore with you. And I think--yes, I think
your sister is going to be proud of you one day."

And now it was Spike's turn to grow thoughtful, while his companion,
noting the flushed brow and the firm set of the boyish lips, frowned no
longer.

"Hello, there's Tony!" exclaimed Spike as they turned into Forty-second
Street, "over there--behind the pushcart--th' guy with th' peanuts!" And
he pointed where, from amid a throng of vehicles, a gaily painted barrow
emerged, a barrow whereon were peanuts unbaked, baked, and baking as the
shrill small whistle above its stove proclaimed to all and sundry. It
was propelled by a slender, graceful, olive-skinned man, who, beholding
Spike, flashed two rows of brilliant teeth and halted his barrow beside
the curb.

"How goes it, Tony?" questioned Spike, whereat the young Italian smiled,
and thereafter sighed and shook his head.

"Da beezeneez-a ver' good," he sighed, "da peanut-a sell-a all-a da
time! But my lil' Pietro he sick, he no da same since his moder die-a,