“Oh, I don't know,” returned Pretty Agnes, her manner half desperate. “Nailer, I'm simply fretted batty!” “W'at's gone crooked, dear?” asked Mollie Squint, soothingly. “Youse ain't been puttin' on th' mitts wit' Sammy?” “No,” replied Pretty Agnes, the tears beginning to flow; “me an' Sammy's all right. On'y he won't listen!” Then suddenly pointing with her finger, she exclaimed; “There! It's him I'm worryin' about!” The Nailer and Mollie Squint glanced in the direction indicated by Pretty Agnes. The Ghost had just come in and was sidling into a chair. It must be admitted that there was much in his appearance to dislike. His lips were loose, his eyes half closed and sleepy, while his chin was catlike, retreating, unbased. In figure he was undersized, slope-shouldered, slouching. When he spoke, his voice drawled, and the mumbled words fell half-formed from the slack angles of his mouth. He was an eel--a human eel--slippery, slimy, hard to locate, harder still to hold. To find him you would have to draw off all the water in the pond, and then poke about in the ooze. “It's him that's frettin' me,” repeated Pretty Agnes. “He's got me wild!” The Nailer donned an expression, cynical and incredulous. “W'at's this?” said he. “W'y Agnes, youse ain't soft on that mutt, be youse? Say, youse must be gettin' balmy!” “It ain't that,” returned Pretty Agnes, indignantly. “Do youse think I'd fall for such a chromo? I'd be bughouse!” “Bughouse wouldn't half tell it!” exclaimed Mollie Squint fervently. “Him?”--nodding towards the Ghost. “W'y he's woise'n a wet dog!” “Well,” returned the puzzled Nailer, who with little imagination, owned still less of sentimental breadth, “if youse ain't stuck on him, how's he managin' to fret youse? Show me, an' I'll take a punch at his lamp.” “Punchin' wouldn't do no good,” replied Pretty Agnes, resignedly. “This is how it stands. Sammy an' Big Head's gettin' ready to do a _schlam_ job. They've let th' Ghost join out wit' 'em, an' I know he's goin' to give 'em up.” The Nailer looked grave. “Unless youse've got somethin' on him, Agnes.” he remonstrated, “you oughtn't to make a squawk like that. How do youse know he's goin' to rap?” “Cause he always raps,” she cried fiercely. “Where's Mashier? Where's Marky Price? Where's Skinny Goodstein? Up th' river!--every mother's son of 'em! An' all his pals, once; every one! He's filled in wit' th' best boys that ever cracked a bin. An' every one of 'em's doin' their bits, while he's here drinkin' beer. I tell youse th' Ghost's a snitch! Youse can see 'Copper' written on his face.” “If I t'ought so,” growled the Nailer, an evil shine in his beady eyes, “I'd croak him right here.” Then, as offering a solution: “If youse 're so sure he's a stool, w'y don't youse tail him an' see if he makes a meet wit' any bulls?”