after everything, crowds the money on to the minister at the end of the ceremony, and then goes off and marries the first bridesmaid, and lives happily ever after."
Spike shook his head.
"I ain't got no use for gittin' married, boss."
"Spike, the misogynist! You wait, Spike. Some day, love will awake in your heart, and you'll start writing poetry."
"I'se not dat kind of mug, boss," protested the Bowery boy. "I ain't got no use fer goils. It's a mutt's game."
This was rank heresy. Jimmy laid down the razor from motives of prudence, and proceeded to lighten Spike's reprehensible darkness.
"Spike, you're an ass," he said. "You don't know anything about it. If you had any sense at all, you'd understand that the only thing worth doing in life is to get married. You bone-headed bachelors make me sick. Think what it would mean to you, having a wife. Think of going out on a cold winter's night to crack a crib, knowing that there would be a cup of hot soup waiting for you when you got back, and your slippers all warmed and comfortable. And then she'd sit on your knee, and you'd tell her how you shot the policeman, and you'd examine the swag together—! Why, I can't imagine anything cozier. Perhaps there would be little Spikes running about the house. Can't you see them jumping with joy as you slid in through the window, and told the great