The soul of a real artist is quenched with difficulty.
The boys carefully pointed out to him that advertisements were soulless, and that the deficiencies of the day might not be supplied by the morrow.
“A cool hundred,” said Fuzzy thoughtfully and mushily.
“Boys,” said he, “you are true friends. I’ll go up and claim the reward. The show business is not what it used to be.”
Night was falling more surely. The three tagged at his sides to the foot of the rise on which stood the Millionaire’s house. There Fuzzy turned upon them acrimoniously.
“You are a pack of putty-faced beagle-hounds,” he roared. “Go away.”
They went away—a little way.
In “Pigeon” McCarthy’s pocket was a section of one-inch gas-pipe eight inches long. In one end of it and in the middle of it was a lead plug. One-half of it was packed tight with solder. Black Riley carried a slung-shot, being a conventional thug. “One-ear” Mike relied upon a pair of brass knucks—an heirloom in the family.
“Why fetch and carry,” said Black Riley, “when some one will do it for ye? Let him bring it out to us. Hey—what?”
“We can chuck him in the river,” said “Pigeon” McCarthy, “with a stone tied to his feet.”
