Mike made a deal of money. Not that it stuck to hum; for he was born with his hands open and spent it as fast as he made it. Also, he drank deeply and freely, and moreover hit the pipe. Nor could he, in the latter particular, be called a pleasure smoker nor a Saturday nighter. Mike had the habit. At one time Mike ran an opium den at Coney Island, and again on the second floor of Number Twelve Pell. But the police--who had no sure way of gauging the profits of opium--demanded so much for the privilege that Mike was forced to close. “Them bulls wanted all I made an' more,” complained Mike, recounting his wrongs to Beansey. “I had a 50-pipe joint that time in Pell, an' from the size of the rake-off the captain's wardman asks, you'd have thought that every pipe's a roulette-wheel.” “Couldn't you do nothin' wit' 'em?” asked Bean-sey, sympathetically. “Not a t'ing. I shows 'em that number-one hop is $87.50 a can, an' yen-chee or seconds not less'n $32. Nothin' doin'! It's either come across wit' five hundred bones th' foist of every month, or quit.” Mike sighed over his fair prospects, blighted by the ignorant avarice of the police. “W'at was youse chargin' a smoke?” inquired Beansey. “Two bits a shell. Of course, that's for yen-chee. I couldn't give 'em number-one for two bits. After all, w'at I cares most for is me cats--two long-haired Persians.” “Cats?” repeated Beansey, suspiciously. “W'at be youse handin' me?” Beansey by the way, knew nothing of opium. “W'at am I handin' youse?” said Mike. “I'm handin' you th' goods. Cats get th' habit same as people. My cats would plant be some party who's cookin' a pill, an' sniff th' hop an' get as happy as anybody. Take 'em off the pipe, an' it's th' same as if they're Christians. Dogs, too. Let 'em once get th' habit, an' then take 'em away from a pipe joint, an' they has pains in their stummicks, an' twists an' yowls till you think they're goin' mad. When th' cops shut down on me, I has to give me cats to th' monk who's runnin' th' opium dump on th' top floor. Sure t'ing! They'd have croaked if I hadn't. They're on'y half happy, though; for while they gets their hop they misses me. Them toms an' me has had many a good smoke.” Folks often wondered at the intimacy between Mike and Little Maxie--not that it has anything to do with this story. Little Maxie--his name on the Central Office books was Maxie Fyne, _alias_ Maxie English, _alias_ Little Maxie, _alias_ Sharapatheck--was the opposite of Big Mike. He was small; he was weak; he didn't drink; he didn't hit the pipe. Also, at all times, and in cold blood, he was a professional thief. His wife, whom he called “My Kytie”--for Little Maxie was from Houndsditch, and now and then his accent showed it--was as good a thief as he, but on a different lay. Her specialty was robbing women. She worked alone, as all good gon-molls do, and because of her sure excellencies was known as the Golden Hand.