an obscure way, to Mickey's enjoyment. It was a part of the daring truancy of the evening; for he knew how his mother fought his father's love of a frequent glass. He smiled at the curtain.
The smile faded as he became aware that the curtain was not the one that he had seen there before. It was a tame pastoral—a Sunday-school prize volume compared to the penny-horrible in paint that had been hanging there.
"Dhey was a bull-fight on d' odder one—d' ol' one," he explained to his father, who had returned; refreshed. "An' dhe bull was jus' givin' it to 'em—an' dhey was bleedin' blood." His voice went husky with the thought of much gore.
"Was they?" His father turned a blearily sympathetic eye on the place where the masterpiece had hung.
"It was did by a convic'. An' he was in fer life. An' dhey pardoned 'm—fer doin' it!"
His father nodded, drawing a package of candy from his pocket. Mickey took it awkwardly, without thanks. "'D yuh get yer drink?" he asked, to be "sociable."
"Sure! Havin' a good time?"
Mickey, sucking on a candy, winked archly. "Uh-huh!"
His father grinned. There was no need of words. They understood each other.
When the curtain rose again, it rose on the promised robbery, on low lights and tremulous violins, on an air vibrating with mystery and crime; and little Mickey
