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"Say," he interrupted himself; "what's the matter with going out now and

wrapping ourselves around that swell feed you were speaking of?"

Billy rose. It didn't seem possible that Bridge could be going to double-cross him.

In a flannel shirt from earth's clean dirt,

Here, pal, is my calloused hand!

Billy repeated the lines half aloud. They renewed his confidence in Bridge,

somehow.

Like them?" asked the latter.

Yes," said Billy; "s'more of Knibbs?"

No, Service. Come on, let's go and dine. How about the Midland?" and he grinned

at his little joke as he led the way toward the street.

It was late afternoon. The sun already had set; but it still was too light for lamps.

Bridge led the way toward a certain eating-place of which he knew where a man

might dine well and from a clean platter for two bits. Billy had been keeping his

eyes open for detectives. They had passed no uniformed police--that would be the

crucial test, thought he--unless Bridge intended tipping off headquarters on the

quiet and having the pinch made at night after Billy had gone to bed.

As they reached the little restaurant, which was in a basement, Bridge motioned

Billy down ahead of him. Just for an instant he, himself, paused at the head of

the stairs and looked about. As he did so a man stepped from the shadow of a

doorway upon the opposite side of the street.

If Bridge saw him he apparently gave no sign, for he turned slowly and with

deliberate steps followed Billy down into the eating-place.

173

The Mucker