The girl, Maggie, blossomed in a mud puddle. She grew to bea most rare and wonderful production of a tenement district,a pretty girl.

None of the dirt of Rum Alley seemed to be in her veins.The philosophers up-stairs, down-stairs and on the same floor,puzzled over it.

When a child, playing and fighting with gamins in the street,dirt disguised her. Attired in tatters and grime, she went unseen.

There came a time, however, when the young men of the vicinitysaid: "Dat Johnson goil is a puty good looker." About this periodher brother remarked to her: "Mag, I'll tell yeh dis! See?Yeh've edder got teh go teh hell or go teh work!" Whereupon shewent to work, having the feminine aversion of going to hell.

By a chance, she got a position in an establishment where theymade collars and cuffs. She received a stool and a machine in aroom where sat twenty girls of various shades of yellow discontent. She perched on the stool and treadled at her machine all day,turning out collars, the name of whose brand could be noted for itsirrelevancy to anything in connection with collars. At night shereturned home to her mother.

Jimmie grew large enough to take the vague position of head ofthe family. As incumbent of that office, he stumbled up-stairslate at night, as his father had done before him. He reeled aboutthe room, swearing at his relations, or went to sleep on the floor.

The mother had gradually arisen to that degree of fame thatshe could bandy words with her acquaintances among the police-justices. Court-officials called her by her first name. When sheappeared they pursued a course which had been theirs for months. They invariably grinned and cried out: "Hello, Mary, you hereagain?" Her grey head wagged in many a court. She always besiegedthe bench with voluble excuses, explanations, apologies andprayers. Her flaming face and rolling eyes were a sort of familiarsight on the island. She measured time by means of sprees, and waseternally swollen and dishevelled.

One day the young man, Pete, who as a lad had smitten theDevil's Row urchin in the back of the head and put to flight theantagonists of his friend, Jimmie, strutted upon the scene.He met Jimmie one day on the street, promised to take him toa 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 checkedlegs with an enticing nonchalance. His hair was curled down overhis forehead in an oiled bang. His rather pugged nose seemed torevolt from contact with a bristling moustache of short, wire-likehairs. His blue double-breasted coat, edged with black braid,buttoned close to a red puff tie, and his patent-leather shoeslooked like murder-fitted weapons.

His mannerisms stamped him as a man who had a correct sense ofhis personal superiority. There was valor and contempt forcircumstances in the glance of his eye. He waved his hands like aman of the world, who dismisses religion and philosophy, and says"Fudge." He had certainly seen everything and with each curl ofhis lip, he declared that it amounted to nothing. Maggiethought he must be a very elegant and graceful bartender.

He was telling tales to Jimmie.

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

"Hully gee! Dey makes me tired," he said. "Mos' e'ry daysome farmer comes in an' tries teh run deh shop. See? But deygits t'rowed right out! I jolt dem right out in deh street beforedey knows where dey is! See?"

"Sure," said Jimmie.

"Dere was a mug come in deh place deh odder day wid an idearhe wus goin' teh own deh place! Hully gee, he wus goin' teh owndeh place! I see he had a still on an' I didn' wanna giv 'im nostuff, so I says: 'Git deh hell outa here an' don' make notrouble,' I says like dat! See? 'Git deh hell outa here an' don'make no trouble'; like dat. 'Git deh hell outa here,' I says. See?"

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

"Well, deh blokie he says: 'T'hell wid it! I ain' lookin' forno scrap,' he says (See?), 'but' he says, 'I'm 'spectable cit'zenan' I wanna drink an' purtydamnsoon, too.' See? 'Deh hell,' Isays. Like dat! 'Deh hell,' I says. See? 'Don' make notrouble,' I says. Like dat. 'Don' make no trouble.' See? Dendeh 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 deh bar an' deh way Iplunked dat blokie was great. See? Dat's right! In deh jaw! See? Hully gee, he t'rowed a spittoon true deh front windee. Say,I taut I'd drop dead. But deh boss, he comes in after an' he says,'Pete, yehs done jes' right! Yeh've gota keep order an' it's allright.' 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 hehadn' oughta made no trouble. Dat's what I says teh dem: 'Don'come in here an' make no trouble,' I says, like dat. 'Don' make notrouble.' See?"

As Jimmie and his friend exchanged tales descriptive of theirprowess, Maggie leaned back in the shadow. Her eyes dweltwonderingly and rather wistfully upon Pete's face. The brokenfurniture, grimey walls, and general disorder and dirt of her homeof a sudden appeared before her and began to take apotential aspect. Pete's aristocratic person looked as if it mightsoil. She looked keenly at him, occasionally, wondering if he wasfeeling contempt. But Pete seemed to be enveloped in reminiscence.

"Hully gee," said he, "dose mugs can't phase me. Dey knows Ikin wipe up deh street wid any t'ree of dem."

When he said, "Ah, what deh hell," his voice was burdened withdisdain for the inevitable and contempt for anything that fatemight compel him to endure.

Maggie perceived that here was the beau ideal of a man. Herdim thoughts were often searching for far away lands where, as Godsays, the little hills sing together in the morning. Under thetrees of her dream-gardens there had always walked a lover.