She measured time by means of sprees, and was eternally swollen and dishevelled.

One day the young man, Pete, who as a lad had smitten the Devil's Row urchin in the back of the head and put to flight the antagonists of his friend, Jimmie, strutted upon the scene. He met Jimmie one day on the street, promised to take him to a boxing match in Williamsburg, and called for him in the evening.

Maggie observed Pete.

He sat on a table in the Johnson home and dangled his checked legs with an enticing nonchalance. His hair was curled down over his forehead in an oiled bang. His pugged nose seemed to revolt from contact with a bristling moustache of short, wire-like hairs. His blue double-breasted coat, edged with black braid, was buttoned close to a red puff tie, and his patent-leather shoes looked like weapons.

His mannerisms stamped him as a man who had a correct sense of his personal superiority. There was valor and contempt for circumstances in the glance of his eye. He waved his hands like a man of the world, who dismisses religion and philosophy, and says »Rats!« He had certainly seen everything and with each curl of his lip, he declared that it amounted to nothing. Maggie thought he must be a very ›elegant‹ bartender.

He was telling tales to Jimmie.

Maggie watched him furtively, with half-closed eyes, lit with a vague interest.

»Hully gee! Dey makes me tired,« he said. »Mos' e'ry day some farmer comes in an' tries t' run d' shop. See? But dey gits t'rowed right out! I jolt dem right out in d' street before dey knows where dey is! See?«

»Sure,« said Jimmie.

»Dere was a mug come in d' place d' odder day wid an idear he wus goin' t' own d' place! Hully gee, he wus goin' t' own d' place! I see he had a still on an' I didn' wanna giv 'im no stuff, so I says: ›Git d' hell outa here an' don' make no trouble,‹ I says like dat! See? ›Git d' hell outa here an' don' make no trouble‹; like dat. ›Git d' hell outa here,‹ I says. See?«

Jimmie nodded understandingly. Over his features played an eager desire to state the amount of his valor in a similar crisis, but the narrator proceeded.

»Well, d' blokie he says: ›T' hell wid it! I ain' lookin' for no scrap,‹ he says – see? ›But,‹ he says, ›I'm 'spectable cit'zen an' I wanna drink an' purtydamnsoon, too.‹ See? ›D' hell,‹ I says. Like dat! ›D' hell,‹ I says. See? ›Don' make no trouble,‹ I says. Like dat. ›Don' make no trouble.‹ See? Den d' mug he squared off an' said he was fine as silk wid his dukes – see? An' he wanned a drink damnquick. Dat's what he said. See?«

»Sure,« repeated Jimmie.

Pete continued. »Say, I jes' jumped d' bar an' d' way I plunked dat blokie was outa sight. See? Dat's right! In d' jaw! See? Hully gee, he t'rowed a spittoon t'ru d' front windee. Say, I t'aut I'd drop dead. But d' boss, he comes in after an' he says, ›Pete, yehs done jes' right! Yeh've gota keep order an' it's all right.‹ See? ›It's all right,‹ he says. Dat's what he said.«

The two held a technical discussion.

»Dat bloke was a dandy,« said Pete, in conclusion, »but he hadn' oughta made no trouble. Dat's what I says t' dem: ›Don' come in here an' make no trouble,‹ I says, like dat. ›Don' make no trouble.‹ See?«

As Jimmie and his friend exchanged tales descriptive of their prowess, Maggie leaned back in the shadow. Her eyes dwelt wonderingly and rather wistfully upon Pete's face. The broken furniture, grimy walls, and general disorder and dirt of her home of a sudden appeared before her and began to take a potential aspect. Pete's aristocratic person looked as if it might soil. She looked keenly at him, occasionally, wondering if he was feeling contempt.