The girl, Maggie, blossomed
in a mud puddle. She grew to
be a 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 vicinity
said: "Dat Johnson goil is a
puty good looker." About this
period her brother remarked to
her: "Mag, I'll tell yeh dis!
See? Yeh've edder got teh go
teh hell or go teh work!" Whereupon
she went to work, having the
feminine aversion of going to
hell.
By a chance, she got a position
in an establishment where they
made collars and cuffs. She received
a stool and a machine in a room
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 its irrelevancy to anything
in connection with collars. At
night she returned home to her
mother.
Jimmie grew large enough to
take the vague position of head
of the family. As incumbent of
that office, he stumbled up-stairs
late at night, as his father
had done before him. He reeled
about the room, swearing at his
relations, or went to sleep on
the floor.
The mother
had gradually arisen to that
degree of fame that she
could bandy words with her acquaintances
among the police- justices. Court-officials
called her by her first name.
When she appeared they pursued
a course which had been theirs
for months. They invariably grinned
and cried out: "Hello, Mary,
you here again?" Her grey head
wagged in many a court. She always
besieged the bench with voluble
excuses, explanations, apologies
and prayers. Her flaming face
and rolling eyes were a sort
of familiar sight on the island.
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 rather 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,
buttoned close to a red puff
tie, and his patent-leather shoes
looked like murder-fitted 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 "Fudge." 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 and graceful 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 teh run deh
shop. See? But dey gits t'rowed
right out! I jolt dem right out
in deh street before dey knows
where dey is! See?"
"Sure," said
Jimmie.
"Dere was a
mug come in deh place deh odder
day wid an idear
he wus goin' teh own deh place!
Hully gee, he wus goin' teh own
deh place! I see he had a still
on an' I didn' wanna giv 'im
no stuff, so I says: 'Git deh
hell outa here an' don' make
no trouble,' 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 an eager
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'
for no scrap,' he says (See?),
'but' he says, 'I'm 'spectable
cit'zen an' I wanna drink an'
purtydamnsoon, too.' See? 'Deh
hell,' I says. Like dat! 'Deh
hell,' I says. See? 'Don' make
no trouble,' I says. Like dat.
'Don' make no trouble.' See?
Den deh 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 I
plunked 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 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 teh 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, grimey
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.
But Pete seemed to be enveloped
in reminiscence.
"Hully gee," said he, "dose
mugs can't phase me. Dey knows
I kin wipe up deh street wid
any t'ree of dem."
When he said, "Ah, what deh
hell," his voice was burdened
with disdain for the inevitable
and contempt for anything that
fate might compel him to endure.
Maggie perceived that here
was the beau ideal of a man.
Her dim thoughts were often searching
for far away lands where, as
God says, the little hills sing
together in the morning. Under
the trees of her dream-gardens
there had always walked a lover.
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