"An' water cress an' jam!" nodded Mrs. Trapes.

"Guv," said the old man, gripping Ravenslee's hand, "God bless ye for a
true man an' a noble sport. Ma'am, you're a angel! Jam, ma'am--you're
a nymp'--you're two nymp's--

"'I oft would cast a rovin' eye
Ere these white 'airs I grew, ma'am,
To see a 'andsome nymp' go by,
But none s' fair as you, ma'am.'

"An' there's me hand on it, ma'am."

"My land!" ejaculated Mrs. Trapes, staring; then all at once she
laughed, a strange laugh that came and went again immediately, yet left
her features a little less grim than usual, as, reaching out, she
grasped the old man's feeble hand.

"I guess you're only bein' p'lite," said she, "but jest for that you're
sure goin' t' eat as much cake an' jam as your small insides can hold."
So saying, she led the way into her small and very neat domain and
ushered them into the bright little parlour where the Spider sat already
enthroned in that armchair whereon sunflowers rioted. Like the chair,
the Spider was somewhat exotic as to socks and tie, and he seemed a
trifle irked by stiff cuffs and collar as he sat staring at the green
and yellow tablecloth and doing his best not to tread upon the pink
hearthrug.

"Joe," said Ravenslee, "this is Spider Connolly, who knocked out Larry
McKinnon at San Francisco last year in the sixty-ninth. Spider, I want