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 someone 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.”

“Youse guys make me tired,” said “One-ear” Mike sadly. “Ain’t progress ever appealed to none of yez? Sprinkle a little gasoline on ’im, and drop ’im on the Drive—well?”

Fuzzy entered the Millionaire’s gate and zig-zagged toward the softly glowing entrance of the mansion. The three goblins came up to the gate and lingered—one on each side of it, one beyond the roadway. They fingered their cold metal and leather, confident.

Fuzzy rang the door-bell, smiling foolishly and dreamily. An atavistic instinct prompted him to reach for the button of his right glove. But he wore no gloves; so his left hand dropped, embarrassed.

The particular menial whose duty it was to open doors to silks and laces shied at first sight of Fuzzy. But a second glance took in his passport, his card of admission, his surety of welcome—the lost ragdoll of the daughter of the house dangling under his arm.

Fuzzy was admitted into a great hall, dim with the glow from unseen lights. The hireling went away and returned with a maid and the Child. The doll was restored to the mourning one. She clasped her lost darling to her breast; and then, with the inordinate selfishness and candour of childhood, stamped her foot and whined hatred and fear of the odious being who had rescued her from the depths of sorrow and despair. Fuzzy wriggled himself into an ingratiatory attitude and essayed the idiotic smile and blattering small-talk that is supposed to charm the budding intellect of the young. The Child bawled, and was dragged away, hugging her Betsy close.

There came the Secretary, pale, poised, polished, gliding in pumps, and worshipping pomp and ceremony. He counted out into Fuzzy’s hand ten ten-dollar bills; then dropped his eye upon the door, transferred it to James, its custodian, indicated the obnoxious earner of the reward with the other, and allowed his pumps to waft him away to secretarial regions.

James gathered Fuzzy with his own commanding optic and swept him as far as the front door.

When the money touched Fuzzy’s dingy palm his first instinct was to take to his heels; but a second thought restrained him from that blunder of etiquette. It was his; it had been given him. It—and, oh, what an elysium it opened to the gaze of his mind’s eye! He had tumbled to the foot of the ladder; he was hungry, homeless, friendless, ragged, cold, drifting; and he held in his hand the key to a paradise of the mud-honey that he craved. The fairy doll had waved a wand with her rag-stuffed hand; and now wherever he might go the enchanted palaces with shining foot-rests and magic red fluids in gleaming glassware would be open to him.

He followed James to the door.