little whisky, John.’
The two friends leaned against the bar, and looked with enthusiasm upon each other.
‘Well, well, I’m thunderin’ glad t’ see yeh,’ said Jones.
‘Well, I guess,’ replied Kelcey. ‘Here’s to yeh, of man.’
‘Let ‘er go.’
They lifted their glasses, glanced fervidly at each other, and drank.
‘Yeh ain’t changed much, on’y yeh’ve growed like th’ devil,’ said Jones reflectively, as he put down his glass; ‘I’d know yeh anywheres.’
‘Certainly yeh would,’ said Kelcey; ‘an’ I knew you, too, th’ minute I saw yeh. Yer changed, though.’
‘Yes,’ admitted Jones with some complacency; ‘I s’pose I am.’ He regarded himself in the mirror that multiplied the bottles on the shelf back of the bar. He should have seen a grinning face with a rather pink nose. His derby was perched carelessly on the back part of his head. Two wisps of hair straggled down over his hollow temples. There was something very worldly and wise about him. Life did not seem to confuse him. Evidently he understood its complications. His hand thrust into his trousers-pocket, where he jingled keys, and his hat perched back on his head, expressed a young man of vast knowledge. His extensive acquaintance with bar-tenders aided him materially in this habitual expression of wisdom.
Having finished, he turned to the barkeeper. ‘John, has any of th’ gang been in t’-night yet?’
‘No—not yet,’ said the barkeeper; ‘ol Bleecker was aroun’ this afternoon about four. He said if I seen any of th’ boys t’ tell ‘em he’d be up t’-night if he could get away. I saw Connor an’ that other fellah goin’ down th’ avenyeh about an hour ago. I guess they’ll be back after awhile.’
‘This is th’ hang-out fer a great gang,’ said Jones, turning to Kelcey. ‘They’re a great crowd, I tell yeh. We own th’ place when we get started. Come aroun’ some night. Any night, almost—t’-night, b’ jiminy! They’ll almost all be here, an’ I’d like t’ interduce yeh. They’re a great gang—gre-e-at!’
‘I’d like teh,’ said Kelcey.
‘Well, come ahead, then,’ cried the other cordially. ‘Ye’d like t’ know ‘em. It’s an outa sight crowd. Come aroun’ t’-night!’
‘I will if I can.’
‘Well, yeh ain’t got anything t’ do, have yeh?’ demanded Jones. ‘Well, come along, then. Yeh might just as well spend yer time with a good crowd ‘a fellahs. An’ it’s a great gang—great—gre-e-at!’
‘Well, I must make fer home now, anyhow,’ said Kelcey. ‘It’s late as blazes. What’ll yeh take this time, ol’ man?’
‘Gimme little more whisky, John.’
‘Guess I’ll take another beer.’
Jones emptied the whisky into his large mouth, and then put the glass upon the bar.
‘Been in th’ city long?’ he asked. ‘Um—well, three years is a good deal fer a slick man. Doin’ well? Oh! well, nobody’s doin’ well these days.’ He looked down mournfully at his shabby clothes. ‘Father’s dead, ain’t ‘ee? Yeh don’t say so? Fell off a scaffoldin’, didn’t ‘ee? I heard it somewheres. Mother’s livin’, of course? I thought she was. Fine ol’ lady—fi-i-ne! Well, you’re th’ last of her boys. Was five of yeh onct, wasn’t there? I knew four m’self. Yes, five. I thought so. An’ all gone but you, hey? Well, you’ll have t’ brace up an’ be a comfort t’ th’ ol’ mother. Well, well, well, who would ‘a thought that on’y you’d be left out ‘a all that mob ‘a tow-headed kids! Well, well, well, it’s a queer world, ain’t it?’
A contemplation of this thought made him sad. He sighed, and moodily watched the other sip beer.
‘Well, well, it’s a queer world—a damn queer world.’
‘Yes,’ said Kelcey, ‘I’m th’ on’y one left!’ There was an accent of discomfort in his voice. He did not like this dwelling upon a sentiment that was connected with himself.
‘How is th’ ol’ lady, anyhow?’ continued Jones. Th’ last time I remember she was as spry as a little ol’ cricket, an’ was helpeltin’ aroun’ th’ country lecturin’ before W. C. T. U.‘s an’ one thing an’ another.’
‘Oh, she’s pretty well,’ said Kelcey.
‘An’ outa five boys you’re th’ on’y one she’s got left? Well, well—have another drink before yeh go.’
‘Oh, I guess I’ve had enough.’
A wounded expression came into Jones’s eyes. ‘Oh, come on,’ he said.
‘Well, I’ll take another beer!’
‘Gimme little more whisky, John!’
When they had concluded this ceremony, Jones went with his friend to the door of the saloon. ‘Good-bye, of man,’ he said genially. His homely features shone with friendliness. ‘Come aroun’, now, sure. T’-night! See? They’re a great crowd. Gre-e-at!’
CHAPTER II
A man with a red, mottled face put forth his head from a window and cursed violently. He flung a bottle high across two backyards at a window of the opposite tenement. It broke against the bricks of the house, and the fragments fell crackling upon the stones below. The man shook his fist.
A bare-armed woman, making an array of clothes on a line in one of the yards glanced casually up at the man and listened’ to his words. Her eyes followed his to the other tenement. From a distant window a youth with a pipe yelled some comments upon the poor aim. Two children, being in the proper yard, picked up the bits of broken glass and began to fondle them as new toys.
From the window at which the man raged came the sound of an old voice, singing. It quavered and trembled out into the air as if a sound-spirit had a broken wing.
‘Should I be car-reed tew th’ skies
O-on flow’ry be-eds of ee-ease,
While others fought tew win th’ prize
An’ sailed through blood-ee seas?’
The man in the opposite window was greatly enraged. He continued to swear.
A little old woman was the owner of the voice. In a fourth-story room of the red and black tenement she was trudging on a journey. In her arms she bore pots and pans, and sometimes a broom and dust-pan. She wielded them like weapons. Their weight seemed to have bended her back and crooked her arms until she walked with difficulty. Often she plunged her hands into water at a sink. She splashed about, the dwindled muscles working to and fro under the loose skin of her arms. She came from
