“But won’t he come back sometime?” “Can’t say. It’s hard to tell,” non-committally. “And Jim?” Michael’s voice was sad. “Jim, he’s doin’ time,” sullenly. “I’m sorry!” said Michael sadly, and a strange hush came about the dark group. Now why should this queer chap be sorry? No one else cared, unless it might be Jim, and Jim had got caught. It was nothing to them. “Now tell me about Janie—and little Bobs—” The questioner paused. His voice was very low. “Aw, cut it out!” snarled Sam irritably. “Don’t come any high strikes on their account. They’re dead an’ you can’t dig ’em up an’ weep over ’em. Hustle up an’ tell us wot yer wantin’ to do.” “Well, Sam,” said Michael trying to ignore the natural repulsion he felt at the last words of his one-time friend, “suppose you take lunch with me tomorrow at twelve. Then we can talk over things and get back old times. I will tell you all about my college life and you must tell me all you are doing.” Sam was silent from sheer astonishment. Take lunch! Never in his life had he been invited out to luncheon. Nor had he any desire for an invitation now. “Where?” he asked after a silence so long that Michael began to fear he was not going to answer at all. Michael named a place not far away. He had selected it that morning. It was clean, somewhat, yet not too clean. The fare was far from princely, but it would do, and the locality was none too respectable. Michael was enough of a slum child still to know that his guest would never go with him to a really respectable restaurant, moreover he would not have the wardrobe nor the manners. He waited Sam’s answer breathlessly. Sam gave a queer little laugh as if taken off his guard. The place named was so entirely harmless, to his mind, and the whole matter of the invitation took on the form of a great joke. “Well, I might,” he drawled indifferently. “I won’t make no promises, but I might, an’ then again I might not. It’s jes’ as it happens. Ef I ain’t there by twelve sharp you needn’t wait. Jes’ go ahead an’ eat. I wouldn’t want to spoil yer digestion fer my movements.” “I shall wait!” said Michael decidedly with his pleasant voice ringing clear with satisfaction. “You will come, Sam, I know you will. Good night!” And then he did a most extraordinary thing. He put out his hand, his clean, strong hand, warm and healthy and groping with the keenness of low, found the hardened grimy hand of his one-time companion, and gripped it in a hearty grasp. Sam started back with the instant suspicion of attack, and then stood shamedly still for an instant. The grip of that firm, strong hand, the touch of brotherhood, a touch such as had never come to his life before since he was a little child, completed the work that the smile had begun, and Sam knew that Mikky, the real Mikky was before him.