"Then, you'll find a pretty decent whiskey in that decanter. Help yourself. I think you'll like it."
A musical gurgling, followed by a contented sigh, showed that the statement had been tested and proved correct.
"Cigar?" asked Jimmy.
"Me fer dat," assented his visitor.
"Take a handful."
"I eats dem alive," said the marauder jovially, gathering in the spoils.
Jimmy crossed his legs.
"By the way," he said, "let there be no secrets between us. What's your name? Mine is Pitt. James Willoughby Pitt."
"Mullins is my monaker, boss. Spike, dey calls me."
And you make a living at this sort of thing?"
"Not so woise."
"How did you get in here?"
Spike Mullins grinned.
"Gee! Ain't de window open?"
"If it hadn't been?"
"I'd a' busted it."
Jimmy eyed the fellow fixedly.
"Can you use an oxy-acetylene blow-pipe?" he demanded.
Spike was on the point of drinking. He lowered his glass, and gaped.
"What's dat?" he said.
