Jimmy inspected him out of the corner of his eye, and came to the
conclusion that the Mullins finances must be at a low ebb. Spike's
costume differed in several important details from that of the
ordinary well-groomed man about town. There was nothing of the
_flaneur_ about the Bowery boy. His hat was of the soft black
felt, fashionable on the East Side of New York. It was in poor
condition, and looked as if it had been up too late the night before.
A black tail coat, burst at the elbows, stained with mud, was tightly
buttoned across his chest. This evidently with the idea of concealing
the fact that he wore no shirt--an attempt which was not wholly
successful. A pair of gray flannel trousers and boots out of which two
toes peeped coyly, completed the picture.

Even Spike himself seemed to be aware that there were points in his
appearance which would have distressed the editor of a men's fashion
paper.

"'Scuse dese duds," he said. "Me man's bin an' mislaid de trunk wit'
me best suit in. Dis is me number two."

"Don't mention it, Spike," said Jimmy. "You look like a matinee idol.
Have a drink?"

Spike's eye gleamed as he reached for the decanter. He took a seat.

"Cigar, Spike?"

"Sure. T'anks, Mr. Chames."

Jimmy lit his pipe. Spike, after a few genteel sips, threw off his