Part 1 out of 2
This etext was created by Judith Boss, Omaha, Nebraska.
MAGGIE: A GIRL OF THE STREETS
BY STEPHEN CRANE
A very little boy stood upon a heap of gravel for the honor of
Rum Alley. He was throwing stones at howling urchins from Devil's
Row who were circling madly about the heap and pelting at him.
His infantile countenance was livid with fury. His small body
was writhing in the delivery of great, crimson oaths.
"Run, Jimmie, run! Dey'll get yehs," screamed a retreating
Rum Alley child.
"Naw," responded Jimmie with a valiant roar, "dese micks can't
make me run."
Howls of renewed wrath went up from Devil's Row throats.
Tattered gamins on the right made a furious assault on the gravel
heap. On their small, convulsed faces there shone the grins of
true assassins. As they charged, they threw stones and cursed in
The little champion of Rum Alley stumbled precipitately down
the other side. His coat had been torn to shreds in a scuffle, and
his hat was gone. He had bruises on twenty parts of his body, and
blood was dripping from a cut in his head. His wan features wore
a look of a tiny, insane demon.
On the ground, children from Devil's Row closed in on their
antagonist. He crooked his left arm defensively about his head and
fought with cursing fury. The little boys ran to and fro, dodging,
hurling stones and swearing in barbaric trebles.
From a window of an apartment house that upreared its form
from amid squat, ignorant stables, there leaned a curious woman.
Some laborers, unloading a scow at a dock at the river, paused for
a moment and regarded the fight. The engineer of a passive tugboat
hung lazily to a railing and watched. Over on the Island, a worm
of yellow convicts came from the shadow of a building and crawled
slowly along the river's bank.
A stone had smashed into Jimmie's mouth. Blood was bubbling
over his chin and down upon his ragged shirt. Tears made furrows
on his dirt-stained cheeks. His thin legs had begun to tremble and
turn weak, causing his small body to reel. His roaring curses of
the first part of the fight had changed to a blasphemous chatter.
In the yells of the whirling mob of Devil's Row children
there were notes of joy like songs of triumphant savagery.
The little boys seemed to leer gloatingly at the blood upon
the other child's face.
Down the avenue came boastfully sauntering a lad of sixteen
years, although the chronic sneer of an ideal manhood already sat
upon his lips. His hat was tipped with an air of challenge over
his eye. Between his teeth, a cigar stump was tilted at the angle
of defiance. He walked with a certain swing of the shoulders which
appalled the timid. He glanced over into the vacant lot in which
the little raving boys from Devil's Row seethed about the shrieking
and tearful child from Rum Alley.
"Gee!" he murmured with interest. "A scrap. Gee!"
He strode over to the cursing circle, swinging his shoulders
in a manner which denoted that he held victory in his fists.
He approached at the back of one of the most deeply engaged
of the Devil's Row children.
"Ah, what deh hell," he said, and smote the deeply-engaged one
on the back of the head. The little boy fell to the ground and
gave a hoarse, tremendous howl. He scrambled to his feet, and
perceiving, evidently, the size of his assailant, ran quickly off,
shouting alarms. The entire Devil's Row party followed him. They
came to a stand a short distance away and yelled taunting oaths at
the boy with the chronic sneer. The latter, momentarily, paid no
attention to them.
"What deh hell, Jimmie?" he asked of the small champion.
Jimmie wiped his blood-wet features with his sleeve.
"Well, it was dis way, Pete, see! I was goin' teh lick dat
Riley kid and dey all pitched on me."
Some Rum Alley children now came forward. The party stood for
a moment exchanging vainglorious remarks with Devil's Row. A few
stones were thrown at long distances, and words of challenge passed
between small warriors. Then the Rum Alley contingent turned
slowly in the direction of their home street. They began to give,
each to each, distorted versions of the fight. Causes of retreat
in particular cases were magnified. Blows dealt in the fight were
enlarged to catapultian power, and stones thrown were alleged to
have hurtled with infinite accuracy. Valor grew strong again,
and the little boys began to swear with great spirit.
"Ah, we blokies kin lick deh hull damn Row," said a child, swaggering.
Little Jimmie was striving to stanch the flow of blood from
his cut lips. Scowling, he turned upon the speaker.
"Ah, where deh hell was yeh when I was doin' all deh fightin?"
he demanded. "Youse kids makes me tired."
"Ah, go ahn," replied the other argumentatively.
Jimmie replied with heavy contempt. "Ah, youse can't fight,
Blue Billie! I kin lick yeh wid one han'."
"Ah, go ahn," replied Billie again.
"Ah," said Jimmie threateningly.
"Ah," said the other in the same tone.
They struck at each other, clinched, and rolled over on the
"Smash 'im, Jimmie, kick deh damn guts out of 'im," yelled Pete,
the lad with the chronic sneer, in tones of delight.
The small combatants pounded and kicked, scratched and tore.
They began to weep and their curses struggled in their throats with
sobs. The other little boys clasped their hands and wriggled their
legs in excitement. They formed a bobbing circle about the pair.
A tiny spectator was suddenly agitated.
"Cheese it, Jimmie, cheese it! Here comes yer fader," he yelled.
The circle of little boys instantly parted. They drew away
and waited in ecstatic awe for that which was about to happen.
The two little boys fighting in the modes of four thousand years ago,
did not hear the warning.
Up the avenue there plodded slowly a man with sullen eyes.
He was carrying a dinner pail and smoking an apple-wood pipe.
As he neared the spot where the little boys strove, he
regarded them listlessly. But suddenly he roared an oath and
advanced upon the rolling fighters.
"Here, you Jim, git up, now, while I belt yer life out,
you damned disorderly brat."
He began to kick into the chaotic mass on the ground. The boy
Billie felt a heavy boot strike his head. He made a furious effort
and disentangled himself from Jimmie. He tottered away, damning.
Jimmie arose painfully from the ground and confronting his
father, began to curse him. His parent kicked him. "Come home,
now," he cried, "an' stop yer jawin', er I'll lam the everlasting
head off yehs."
They departed. The man paced placidly along with the apple-
wood emblem of serenity between his teeth. The boy followed a
dozen feet in the rear. He swore luridly, for he felt that it was
degradation for one who aimed to be some vague soldier, or a man of
blood with a sort of sublime license, to be taken home by a father.
Eventually they entered into a dark region where, from a
careening building, a dozen gruesome doorways gave up loads of
babies to the street and the gutter. A wind of early autumn raised
yellow dust from cobbles and swirled it against an hundred windows.
Long streamers of garments fluttered from fire-escapes. In all
unhandy places there were buckets, brooms, rags and bottles. In
the street infants played or fought with other infants or sat
stupidly in the way of vehicles. Formidable women, with uncombed
hair and disordered dress, gossiped while leaning on railings, or
screamed in frantic quarrels. Withered persons, in curious
postures of submission to something, sat smoking pipes in obscure
corners. A thousand odors of cooking food came forth to the
street. The building quivered and creaked from the weight of
humanity stamping about in its bowels.
A small ragged girl dragged a red, bawling infant along the
crowded ways. He was hanging back, baby-like, bracing his
wrinkled, bare legs.
The little girl cried out: "Ah, Tommie, come ahn.
Dere's Jimmie and fader. Don't be a-pullin' me back."
She jerked the baby's arm impatiently. He fell on his face,
roaring. With a second jerk she pulled him to his feet, and they
went on. With the obstinacy of his order, he protested against
being dragged in a chosen direction. He made heroic endeavors to
keep on his legs, denounce his sister and consume a bit of orange
peeling which he chewed between the times of his infantile
As the sullen-eyed man, followed by the blood-covered boy,
drew near, the little girl burst into reproachful cries.
"Ah, Jimmie, youse bin fightin' agin."
The urchin swelled disdainfully.
"Ah, what deh hell, Mag. See?"
The little girl upbraided him, "Youse allus fightin', Jimmie,
an' yeh knows it puts mudder out when yehs come home half dead,
an' it's like we'll all get a poundin'."
She began to weep. The babe threw back his head and roared at
"Ah, what deh hell!" cried Jimmie. "Shut up er I'll smack yer mout'.
As his sister continued her lamentations, he suddenly swore
and struck her. The little girl reeled and, recovering herself,
burst into tears and quaveringly cursed him. As she slowly
retreated her brother advanced dealing her cuffs. The father heard
and turned about.
"Stop that, Jim, d'yeh hear? Leave yer sister alone on the
street. It's like I can never beat any sense into yer damned
The urchin raised his voice in defiance to his parent and
continued his attacks. The babe bawled tremendously, protesting
with great violence. During his sister's hasty manoeuvres, he was
dragged by the arm.
Finally the procession plunged into one of the gruesome doorways.
They crawled up dark stairways and along cold, gloomy halls.
At last the father pushed open a door and they entered a lighted room
in which a large woman was rampant.
She stopped in a career from a seething stove to a pan-covered table.
As the father and children filed in she peered at them.
"Eh, what? Been fightin' agin, by Gawd!" She threw herself
upon Jimmie. The urchin tried to dart behind the others and in the
scuffle the babe, Tommie, was knocked down. He protested with his
usual vehemence, because they had bruised his tender shins against
a table leg.
The mother's massive shoulders heaved with anger. Grasping the
urchin by the neck and shoulder she shook him until he rattled.
She dragged him to an unholy sink, and, soaking a rag in water,
began to scrub his lacerated face with it. Jimmie screamed in pain
and tried to twist his shoulders out of the clasp of the huge arms.
The babe sat on the floor watching the scene, his face in contortions
like that of a woman at a tragedy. The father, with a newly-ladened
pipe in his mouth, crouched on a backless chair near the stove.
Jimmie's cries annoyed him. He turned about and bellowed at his wife:
"Let the damned kid alone for a minute, will yeh, Mary? Yer allus
poundin' 'im. When I come nights I can't git no rest 'cause
yer allus poundin' a kid. Let up, d'yeh hear? Don't be allus
poundin' a kid."
The woman's operations on the urchin instantly increased in violence.
At last she tossed him to a corner where he limply lay cursing and weeping.
The wife put her immense hands on her hips and with a
chieftain-like stride approached her husband.
"Ho," she said, with a great grunt of contempt. "An' what in
the devil are you stickin' your nose for?"
The babe crawled under the table and, turning, peered out
cautiously. The ragged girl retreated and the urchin in the corner
drew his legs carefully beneath him.
The man puffed his pipe calmly and put his great mudded boots
on the back part of the stove.
"Go teh hell," he murmured, tranquilly.
The woman screamed and shook her fists before her husband's
eyes. The rough yellow of her face and neck flared suddenly
crimson. She began to howl.
He puffed imperturbably at his pipe for a time, but finally
arose and began to look out at the window into the darkening chaos
of back yards.
"You've been drinkin', Mary," he said. "You'd better let up
on the bot', ol' woman, or you'll git done."
"You're a liar. I ain't had a drop," she roared in reply.
They had a lurid altercation, in which they damned each
other's souls with frequence.
The babe was staring out from under the table, his small face
working in his excitement.
The ragged girl went stealthily over to the corner where the
"Are yehs hurted much, Jimmie?" she whispered timidly.
"Not a damn bit! See?" growled the little boy.
"Will I wash deh blood?"
"When I catch dat Riley kid I'll break 'is face! Dat's right! See?"
He turned his face to the wall as if resolved to grimly bide
In the quarrel between husband and wife, the woman was victor.
The man grabbed his hat and rushed from the room, apparently
determined upon a vengeful drunk. She followed to the door and
thundered at him as he made his way down stairs.
She returned and stirred up the room until her children were
bobbing about like bubbles.
"Git outa deh way," she persistently bawled, waving feet
with their dishevelled shoes near the heads of her children.
She shrouded herself, puffing and snorting, in a cloud of steam
at the stove, and eventually extracted a frying-pan full of potatoes
She flourished it. "Come teh yer suppers, now," she cried
with sudden exasperation. "Hurry up, now, er I'll help yeh!"
The children scrambled hastily. With prodigious clatter they
arranged themselves at table. The babe sat with his feet dangling
high from a precarious infant chair and gorged his small stomach.
Jimmie forced, with feverish rapidity, the grease-enveloped pieces
between his wounded lips. Maggie, with side glances of fear of
interruption, ate like a small pursued tigress.
The mother sat blinking at them. She delivered reproaches,
swallowed potatoes and drank from a yellow-brown bottle.
After a time her mood changed and she wept as she carried
little Tommie into another room and laid him to sleep
with his fists doubled in an old quilt of faded red
and green grandeur. Then she came and moaned by the stove.
She rocked to and fro upon a chair, shedding tears
and crooning miserably to the two children about their
"poor mother" and "yer fader, damn 'is soul."
The little girl plodded between the table and the chair with
a dish-pan on it. She tottered on her small legs beneath burdens
Jimmie sat nursing his various wounds. He cast furtive glances
at his mother. His practised eye perceived her gradually emerge
from a muddled mist of sentiment until her brain burned in
drunken heat. He sat breathless.
Maggie broke a plate.
The mother started to her feet as if propelled.
"Good Gawd," she howled. Her eyes glittered on her child with
sudden hatred. The fervent red of her face turned almost to
purple. The little boy ran to the halls, shrieking like a monk in
He floundered about in darkness until he found the stairs. He stumbled,
panic-stricken, to the next floor. An old woman opened a door.
A light behind her threw a flare on the urchin's quivering face.
"Eh, Gawd, child, what is it dis time? Is yer fader beatin'
yer mudder, or yer mudder beatin' yer fader?"
Jimmie and the old woman listened long in the hall. Above the
muffled roar of conversation, the dismal wailings of babies at
night, the thumping of feet in unseen corridors and rooms, mingled
with the sound of varied hoarse shoutings in the street and the
rattling of wheels over cobbles, they heard the screams of the
child and the roars of the mother die away to a feeble moaning and
a subdued bass muttering.
The old woman was a gnarled and leathery personage who could
don, at will, an expression of great virtue. She possessed a small
music-box capable of one tune, and a collection of "God bless yehs"
pitched in assorted keys of fervency. Each day she took a position
upon the stones of Fifth Avenue, where she crooked her legs under
her and crouched immovable and hideous, like an idol. She received
daily a small sum in pennies. It was contributed, for the most
part, by persons who did not make their homes in that vicinity.
Once, when a lady had dropped her purse on the sidewalk, the
gnarled woman had grabbed it and smuggled it with great dexterity
beneath her cloak. When she was arrested she had cursed the lady
into a partial swoon, and with her aged limbs, twisted from
rheumatism, had almost kicked the stomach out of a huge policeman
whose conduct upon that occasion she referred to when she said:
"The police, damn 'em."
"Eh, Jimmie, it's cursed shame," she said. "Go, now, like a dear
an' buy me a can, an' if yer mudder raises 'ell all night yehs
can sleep here."
Jimmie took a tendered tin-pail and seven pennies and departed.
He passed into the side door of a saloon and went to the bar.
Straining up on his toes he raised the pail and pennies as high
as his arms would let him. He saw two hands thrust down and take them.
Directly the same hands let down the filled pail and he left.
In front of the gruesome doorway he met a lurching figure.
It was his father, swaying about on uncertain legs.
"Give me deh can. See?" said the man, threateningly.
"Ah, come off! I got dis can fer dat ol' woman an' it 'ud be
dirt teh swipe it. See?" cried Jimmie.
The father wrenched the pail from the urchin. He grasped it
in both hands and lifted it to his mouth. He glued his lips to the
under edge and tilted his head. His hairy throat swelled until it
seemed to grow near his chin. There was a tremendous gulping
movement and the beer was gone.
The man caught his breath and laughed. He hit his son on the
head with the empty pail. As it rolled clanging into the street,
Jimmie began to scream and kicked repeatedly at his father's shins.
"Look at deh dirt what yeh done me," he yelled. "Deh ol'
woman 'ill be raisin' hell."
He retreated to the middle of the street, but the man did not
pursue. He staggered toward the door.
"I'll club hell outa yeh when I ketch yeh," he shouted, and
During the evening he had been standing against a bar drinking
whiskies and declaring to all comers, confidentially: "My home
reg'lar livin' hell! Damndes' place! Reg'lar hell! Why do I come
an' drin' whisk' here thish way? 'Cause home reg'lar livin' hell!"
Jimmie waited a long time in the street and then crept warily
up through the building. He passed with great caution the door of
the gnarled woman, and finally stopped outside his home and listened.
He could hear his mother moving heavily about among the
furniture of the room. She was chanting in a mournful voice,
occasionally interjecting bursts of volcanic wrath at the father,
who, Jimmie judged, had sunk down on the floor or in a corner.
"Why deh blazes don' chere try teh keep Jim from fightin'?
I'll break her jaw," she suddenly bellowed.
The man mumbled with drunken indifference. "Ah, wha' deh
hell. W'a's odds? Wha' makes kick?"
"Because he tears 'is clothes, yeh damn fool," cried the woman
in supreme wrath.
The husband seemed to become aroused. "Go teh hell," he
thundered fiercely in reply. There was a crash against the door
and something broke into clattering fragments. Jimmie partially
suppressed a howl and darted down the stairway. Below he paused
and listened. He heard howls and curses, groans and shrieks,
confusingly in chorus as if a battle were raging. With all was the
crash of splintering furniture. The eyes of the urchin glared in
fear that one of them would discover him.
Curious faces appeared in doorways, and whispered comments
passed to and fro. "Ol' Johnson's raisin' hell agin."
Jimmie stood until the noises ceased and the other inhabitants
of the tenement had all yawned and shut their doors. Then he
crawled upstairs with the caution of an invader of a panther den.
Sounds of labored breathing came through the broken door-panels.
He pushed the door open and entered, quaking.
A glow from the fire threw red hues over the bare floor, the cracked
and soiled plastering, and the overturned and broken furniture.
In the middle of the floor lay his mother asleep. In one
corner of the room his father's limp body hung across the seat
of a chair.
The urchin stole forward. He began to shiver in dread of
awakening his parents. His mother's great chest was heaving
painfully. Jimmie paused and looked down at her. Her face was
inflamed and swollen from drinking. Her yellow brows shaded eye-
lids that had brown blue. Her tangled hair tossed in waves over
her forehead. Her mouth was set in the same lines of vindictive
hatred that it had, perhaps, borne during the fight. Her bare,
red arms were thrown out above her head in positions of exhaustion,
something, mayhap, like those of a sated villain.
The urchin bended over his mother. He was fearful lest she
should open her eyes, and the dread within him was so strong,
that he could not forbear to stare, but hung as if fascinated
over the woman's grim face.
Suddenly her eyes opened. The urchin found himself looking
straight into that expression, which, it would seem, had the power
to change his blood to salt. He howled piercingly and fell
The woman floundered for a moment, tossed her arms about her
head as if in combat, and again began to snore.
Jimmie crawled back in the shadows and waited. A noise in the
next room had followed his cry at the discovery that his mother was
awake. He grovelled in the gloom, the eyes from out his drawn face
riveted upon the intervening door.
He heard it creak, and then the sound of a small voice came to
him. "Jimmie! Jimmie! Are yehs dere?" it whispered. The urchin
started. The thin, white face of his sister looked at him from the
door-way of the other room. She crept to him across the floor.
The father had not moved, but lay in the same death-like
sleep. The mother writhed in uneasy slumber, her chest wheezing as
if she were in the agonies of strangulation. Out at the window a
florid moon was peering over dark roofs, and in the distance the
waters of a river glimmered pallidly.
The small frame of the ragged girl was quivering. Her
features were haggard from weeping, and her eyes gleamed from fear.
She grasped the urchin's arm in her little trembling hands and they
huddled in a corner. The eyes of both were drawn, by some force,
to stare at the woman's face, for they thought she need only to
awake and all fiends would come from below.
They crouched until the ghost-mists of dawn appeared at the
window, drawing close to the panes, and looking in at the
prostrate, heaving body of the mother.
The babe, Tommie, died. He went away in a white,
insignificant coffin, his small waxen hand clutching a flower that
the girl, Maggie, had stolen from an Italian.
She and Jimmie lived.
The inexperienced fibres of the boy's eyes were hardened at an
early age. He became a young man of leather. He lived some red
years without laboring. During that time his sneer became chronic.
He studied human nature in the gutter, and found it no worse than
he thought he had reason to believe it. He never conceived a
respect for the world, because he had begun with no idols that it
He clad his soul in armor by means of happening hilariously in
at a mission church where a man composed his sermons of "yous."
While they got warm at the stove, he told his hearers just where he
calculated they stood with the Lord. Many of the sinners were
impatient over the pictured depths of their degradation. They were
waiting for soup-tickets.
A reader of words of wind-demons might have been able to see
the portions of a dialogue pass to and fro between the exhorter and
"You are damned," said the preacher. And the reader of sounds
might have seen the reply go forth from the ragged people: "Where's
Jimmie and a companion sat in a rear seat and commented upon
the things that didn't concern them, with all the freedom of
English gentlemen. When they grew thirsty and went out their minds
confused the speaker with Christ.
Momentarily, Jimmie was sullen with thoughts of a hopeless
altitude where grew fruit. His companion said that if he
should ever meet God he would ask for a million dollars and a
bottle of beer.
Jimmie's occupation for a long time was to stand on streetcorners
and watch the world go by, dreaming blood-red dreams at the passing
of pretty women. He menaced mankind at the intersections of streets.
On the corners he was in life and of life. The world was
going on and he was there to perceive it.
He maintained a belligerent attitude toward all well-dressed
men. To him fine raiment was allied to weakness, and all good
coats covered faint hearts. He and his order were kings, to a
certain extent, over the men of untarnished clothes, because these
latter dreaded, perhaps, to be either killed or laughed at.
Above all things he despised obvious Christians and ciphers
with the chrysanthemums of aristocracy in their button-holes. He
considered himself above both of these classes. He was afraid of
neither the devil nor the leader of society.
When he had a dollar in his pocket his satisfaction with existence
was the greatest thing in the world. So, eventually, he felt
obliged to work. His father died and his mother's years were
divided up into periods of thirty days.
He became a truck driver. He was given the charge of a painstaking
pair of horses and a large rattling truck. He invaded the turmoil
and tumble of the down-town streets and learned to breathe maledictory
defiance at the police who occasionally used to climb up, drag him
from his perch and beat him.
In the lower part of the city he daily involved himself in
hideous tangles. If he and his team chanced to be in the rear he
preserved a demeanor of serenity, crossing his legs and bursting
forth into yells when foot passengers took dangerous dives beneath
the noses of his champing horses. He smoked his pipe calmly for he
knew that his pay was marching on.
If in the front and the key-truck of chaos, he entered
terrifically into the quarrel that was raging to and fro among the
drivers on their high seats, and sometimes roared oaths and
violently got himself arrested.
After a time his sneer grew so that it turned its glare upon
all things. He became so sharp that he believed in nothing. To
him the police were always actuated by malignant impulses and the
rest of the world was composed, for the most part, of despicable
creatures who were all trying to take advantage of him and with
whom, in defense, he was obliged to quarrel on all possible
occasions. He himself occupied a down-trodden position that
had a private but distinct element of grandeur in its isolation.
The most complete cases of aggravated idiocy were, to his mind,
rampant upon the front platforms of all the street cars. At first
his tongue strove with these beings, but he eventually was superior.
He became immured like an African cow. In him grew a majestic contempt
for those strings of street cars that followed him like intent bugs.
He fell into the habit, when starting on a long journey, of
fixing his eye on a high and distant object, commanding his horses
to begin, and then going into a sort of a trance of observation.
Multitudes of drivers might howl in his rear, and passengers might
load him with opprobrium, he would not awaken until some blue
policeman turned red and began to frenziedly tear bridles and beat
the soft noses of the responsible horses.
When he paused to contemplate the attitude of the police
toward himself and his fellows, he believed that they were the only
men in the city who had no rights. When driving about, he felt
that he was held liable by the police for anything that might occur
in the streets, and was the common prey of all energetic officials.
In revenge, he resolved never to move out of the way of anything,
until formidable circumstances, or a much larger man than himself
forced him to it.
Foot-passengers were mere pestering flies with an insane
disregard for their legs and his convenience. He could not
conceive their maniacal desires to cross the streets. Their
madness smote him with eternal amazement. He was continually
storming at them from his throne. He sat aloft and denounced their
frantic leaps, plunges, dives and straddles.
When they would thrust at, or parry, the noses of his champing
horses, making them swing their heads and move their feet,
disturbing a solid dreamy repose, he swore at the men as fools,
for he himself could perceive that Providence had caused it clearly
to be written, that he and his team had the unalienable right to stand
in the proper path of the sun chariot, and if they so minded,
obstruct its mission or take a wheel off.
And, perhaps, if the god-driver had an ungovernable desire to
step down, put up his flame-colored fists and manfully dispute the
right of way, he would have probably been immediately opposed by a
scowling mortal with two sets of very hard knuckles.
It is possible, perhaps, that this young man would have
derided, in an axle-wide alley, the approach of a flying ferry
boat. Yet he achieved a respect for a fire engine. As one charged
toward his truck, he would drive fearfully upon a sidewalk,
threatening untold people with annihilation. When an engine would
strike a mass of blocked trucks, splitting it into fragments, as a
blow annihilates a cake of ice, Jimmie's team could usually be
observed high and safe, with whole wheels, on the sidewalk.
The fearful coming of the engine could break up the most intricate
muddle of heavy vehicles at which the police had been swearing for
the half of an hour.
A fire engine was enshrined in his heart as an appalling thing
that he loved with a distant dog-like devotion. They had been
known to overturn street-cars. Those leaping horses, striking
sparks from the cobbles in their forward lunge, were creatures
to be ineffably admired. The clang of the gong pierced his breast
like a noise of remembered war.
When Jimmie was a little boy, he began to be arrested.
Before he reached a great age, he had a fair record.
He developed too great a tendency to climb down from his truck
and fight with other drivers. He had been in quite a number of
miscellaneous fights, and in some general barroom rows that had
become known to the police. Once he had been arrested for
assaulting a Chinaman. Two women in different parts of the city,
and entirely unknown to each other, caused him considerable
annoyance by breaking forth, simultaneously, at fateful intervals,
into wailings about marriage and support and infants.
Nevertheless, he had, on a certain star-lit evening, said wonderingly
and quite reverently: "Deh moon looks like hell, don't it?"
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
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.
Pete took note of Maggie.
"Say, Mag, I'm stuck on yer shape. It's outa sight," he said,
parenthetically, with an affable grin.
As he became aware that she was listening closely, he grew
still more eloquent in his descriptions of various happenings in
his career. It appeared that he was invincible in fights.
"Why," he said, referring to a man with whom he had had a
misunderstanding, "dat mug scrapped like a damn dago. Dat's right.
He was dead easy. See? He tau't he was a scrapper. But he foun'
out diff'ent! Hully gee."
He walked to and fro in the small room, which seemed then to
grow even smaller and unfit to hold his dignity, the attribute of
a supreme warrior. That swing of the shoulders that had frozen the
timid when he was but a lad had increased with his growth and
education at the ratio of ten to one. It, combined with the sneer
upon his mouth, told mankind that there was nothing in space which
could appall him. Maggie marvelled at him and surrounded him with
greatness. She vaguely tried to calculate the altitude of the
pinnacle from which he must have looked down upon her.
"I met a chump deh odder day way up in deh city," he said. "I
was goin' teh see a frien' of mine. When I was a-crossin' deh
street deh chump runned plump inteh me, an' den he turns aroun' an'
says, 'Yer insolen' ruffin,' he says, like dat. 'Oh, gee,' I says,
'oh, gee, go teh hell and git off deh eart',' I says, like dat.
See? 'Go teh hell an' git off deh eart',' like dat. Den deh
blokie he got wild. He says I was a contempt'ble scoun'el,
er somet'ing like dat, an' he says I was doom' teh everlastin'
pe'dition an' all like dat. 'Gee,' I says, 'gee! Deh hell I am,'
I says. 'Deh hell I am,' like dat. An' den I slugged 'im. See?"
With Jimmie in his company, Pete departed in a sort of a blaze
of glory from the Johnson home. Maggie, leaning from the window,
watched him as he walked down the street.
Here was a formidable man who disdained the strength of a
world full of fists. Here was one who had contempt for brass-
clothed power; one whose knuckles could defiantly ring against the
granite of law. He was a knight.
The two men went from under the glimmering street-lamp and
passed into shadows.
Turning, Maggie contemplated the dark, dust-stained walls, and
the scant and crude furniture of her home. A clock, in a
splintered and battered oblong box of varnished wood, she suddenly
regarded as an abomination. She noted that it ticked raspingly.
The almost vanished flowers in the carpet-pattern, she conceived to
be newly hideous. Some faint attempts she had made with blue
ribbon, to freshen the appearance of a dingy curtain, she now saw
to be piteous.
She wondered what Pete dined on.
She reflected upon the collar and cuff factory. It began to
appear to her mind as a dreary place of endless grinding. Pete's
elegant occupation brought him, no doubt, into contact with people
who had money and manners. It was probable that he had a large
acquaintance of pretty girls. He must have great sums of money to
To her the earth was composed of hardships and insults. She
felt instant admiration for a man who openly defied it. She
thought that if the grim angel of death should clutch his heart,
Pete would shrug his shoulders and say: "Oh, ev'ryt'ing goes."
She anticipated that he would come again shortly. She spent
some of her week's pay in the purchase of flowered cretonne for a
lambrequin. She made it with infinite care and hung it to the
slightly-careening mantel, over the stove, in the kitchen. She
studied it with painful anxiety from different points in the room.
She wanted it to look well on Sunday night when, perhaps, Jimmie's
friend would come. On Sunday night, however, Pete did not appear.
Afterward the girl looked at it with a sense of humiliation.
She was now convinced that Pete was superior to admiration for
A few evenings later Pete entered with fascinating innovations
in his apparel. As she had seen him twice and he had different
suits on each time, Maggie had a dim impression that his
wardrobe was prodigiously extensive.
"Say, Mag," he said, "put on yer bes' duds Friday night an'
I'll take yehs teh deh show. See?"
He spent a few moments in flourishing his clothes and then
vanished, without having glanced at the lambrequin.
Over the eternal collars and cuffs in the factory Maggie spent
the most of three days in making imaginary sketches of Pete and his
daily environment. She imagined some half dozen women in love with
him and thought he must lean dangerously toward an indefinite one,
whom she pictured with great charms of person, but with an
altogether contemptible disposition.
She thought he must live in a blare of pleasure. He had friends,
and people who were afraid of him.
She saw the golden glitter of the place where Pete was to take
her. An entertainment of many hues and many melodies where she was
afraid she might appear small and mouse-colored.
Her mother drank whiskey all Friday morning. With lurid face
and tossing hair she cursed and destroyed furniture all Friday
afternoon. When Maggie came home at half-past six her mother lay
asleep amidst the wreck of chairs and a table. Fragments of
various household utensils were scattered about the floor.
She had vented some phase of drunken fury upon the lambrequin.
It lay in a bedraggled heap in the corner.
"Hah," she snorted, sitting up suddenly, "where deh hell yeh
been? Why deh hell don' yeh come home earlier? Been loafin'
'round deh streets. Yer gettin' teh be a reg'lar devil."
When Pete arrived Maggie, in a worn black dress, was waiting
for him in the midst of a floor strewn with wreckage. The curtain
at the window had been pulled by a heavy hand and hung by one tack,
dangling to and fro in the draft through the cracks at the sash.
The knots of blue ribbons appeared like violated flowers. The fire
in the stove had gone out. The displaced lids and open doors
showed heaps of sullen grey ashes. The remnants of a meal,
ghastly, like dead flesh, lay in a corner. Maggie's red mother,
stretched on the floor, blasphemed and gave her daughter a bad name.
An orchestra of yellow silk women and bald-headed men on an
elevated stage near the centre of a great green-hued hall, played
a popular waltz. The place was crowded with people grouped
about little tables. A battalion of waiters slid among the throng,
carrying trays of beer glasses and making change from the
inexhaustible vaults of their trousers pockets. Little boys, in
the costumes of French chefs, paraded up and down the irregular
aisles vending fancy cakes. There was a low rumble of conversation
and a subdued clinking of glasses. Clouds of tobacco smoke rolled
and wavered high in air about the dull gilt of the chandeliers.
The vast crowd had an air throughout of having just quitted
labor. Men with calloused hands and attired in garments that
showed the wear of an endless trudge for a living, smoked their
pipes contentedly and spent five, ten, or perhaps fifteen cents for
beer. There was a mere sprinkling of kid-gloved men who smoked
cigars purchased elsewhere. The great body of the crowd was
composed of people who showed that all day they strove with their
hands. Quiet Germans, with maybe their wives and two or three
children, sat listening to the music, with the expressions of happy
cows. An occasional party of sailors from a war-ship, their faces
pictures of sturdy health, spent the earlier hours of the evening
at the small round tables. Very infrequent tipsy men, swollen with
the value of their opinions, engaged their companions in earnest
and confidential conversation. In the balcony, and here and there
below, shone the impassive faces of women. The nationalities of
the Bowery beamed upon the stage from all directions.
Pete aggressively walked up a side aisle and took seats with
Maggie at a table beneath the balcony.
Leaning back he regarded with eyes of superiority the scene
before them. This attitude affected Maggie strongly. A man who
could regard such a sight with indifference must be accustomed to
very great things.
It was obvious that Pete had been to this place many times
before, and was very familiar with it. A knowledge of this fact
made Maggie feel little and new.
He was extremely gracious and attentive. He displayed the
consideration of a cultured gentleman who knew what was due.
"Say, what deh hell? Bring deh lady a big glass! What deh
hell use is dat pony?"
"Don't be fresh, now," said the waiter, with some warmth, as
"Ah, git off deh eart'," said Pete, after the other's
Maggie perceived that Pete brought forth all his elegance and
all his knowledge of high-class customs for her benefit. Her heart
warmed as she reflected upon his condescension.
The orchestra of yellow silk women and bald-headed men gave
vent to a few bars of anticipatory music and a girl, in a pink
dress with short skirts, galloped upon the stage. She smiled upon
the throng as if in acknowledgment of a warm welcome, and began to
walk to and fro, making profuse gesticulations and singing, in
brazen soprano tones, a song, the words of which were inaudible.
When she broke into the swift rattling measures of a chorus some
half-tipsy men near the stage joined in the rollicking refrain and
glasses were pounded rhythmically upon the tables. People leaned
forward to watch her and to try to catch the words of the song.
When she vanished there were long rollings of applause.
Obedient to more anticipatory bars, she reappeared amidst the
half-suppressed cheering of the tipsy men. The orchestra plunged
into dance music and the laces of the dancer fluttered and flew in
the glare of gas jets. She divulged the fact that she was attired
in some half dozen skirts. It was patent that any one of them
would have proved adequate for the purpose for which skirts are
intended. An occasional man bent forward, intent upon the pink
stockings. Maggie wondered at the splendor of the costume and lost
herself in calculations of the cost of the silks and laces.
The dancer's smile of stereotyped enthusiasm was turned for
ten minutes upon the faces of her audience. In the finale she fell
into some of those grotesque attitudes which were at the time
popular among the dancers in the theatres up-town, giving to the
Bowery public the phantasies of the aristocratic theatre-going
public, at reduced rates.
"Say, Pete," said Maggie, leaning forward, "dis is great."
"Sure," said Pete, with proper complacence.
A ventriloquist followed the dancer. He held two fantastic
dolls on his knees. He made them sing mournful ditties and say
funny things about geography and Ireland.
"Do dose little men talk?" asked Maggie.
"Naw," said Pete, "it's some damn fake. See?"
Two girls, on the bills as sisters, came forth and sang a duet
that is heard occasionally at concerts given under church auspices.
They supplemented it with a dance which of course can never
be seen at concerts given under church auspices.
After the duettists had retired, a woman of debatable age sang
a negro melody. The chorus necessitated some grotesque waddlings
supposed to be an imitation of a plantation darkey, under the
influence, probably, of music and the moon. The audience was just
enthusiastic enough over it to have her return and sing a sorrowful
lay, whose lines told of a mother's love and a sweetheart who
waited and a young man who was lost at sea under the most harrowing
circumstances. From the faces of a score or so in the crowd, the
self-contained look faded. Many heads were bent forward with
eagerness and sympathy. As the last distressing sentiment of the
piece was brought forth, it was greeted by that kind of applause
which rings as sincere.
As a final effort, the singer rendered some verses which
described a vision of Britain being annihilated by America, and
Ireland bursting her bonds. A carefully prepared crisis was
reached in the last line of the last verse, where the singer threw
out her arms and cried, "The star-spangled banner." Instantly a
great cheer swelled from the throats of the assemblage of the
masses. There was a heavy rumble of booted feet thumping the
floor. Eyes gleamed with sudden fire, and calloused hands waved
frantically in the air.
After a few moments' rest, the orchestra played crashingly,
and a small fat man burst out upon the stage. He began to roar a
song and stamp back and forth before the foot-lights, wildly waving
a glossy silk hat and throwing leers, or smiles, broadcast. He
made his face into fantastic grimaces until he looked like a
pictured devil on a Japanese kite. The crowd laughed gleefully.
His short, fat legs were never still a moment. He shouted and
roared and bobbed his shock of red wig until the audience broke out
in excited applause.
Pete did not pay much attention to the progress of events upon
the stage. He was drinking beer and watching Maggie.
Her cheeks were blushing with excitement and her eyes were
glistening. She drew deep breaths of pleasure. No thoughts of the
atmosphere of the collar and cuff factory came to her.
When the orchestra crashed finally, they jostled their way to
the sidewalk with the crowd. Pete took Maggie's arm and pushed a
way for her, offering to fight with a man or two.
They reached Maggie's home at a late hour and stood for a
moment in front of the gruesome doorway.
"Say, Mag," said Pete, "give us a kiss for takin' yeh teh deh
show, will yer?"
Maggie laughed, as if startled, and drew away from him.
"Naw, Pete," she said, "dat wasn't in it."
"Ah, what deh hell?" urged Pete.
The girl retreated nervously.
"Ah, what deh hell?" repeated he.
Maggie darted into the hall, and up the stairs. She turned
and smiled at him, then disappeared.
Pete walked slowly down the street. He had something of an
astonished expression upon his features. He paused under a lamp-
post and breathed a low breath of surprise.
"Gawd," he said, "I wonner if I've been played fer a duffer."
As thoughts of Pete came to Maggie's mind, she began to have
an intense dislike for all of her dresses.
"What deh hell ails yeh? What makes yeh be allus fixin' and
fussin'? Good Gawd," her mother would frequently roar at her.
She began to note, with more interest, the well-dressed women
she met on the avenues. She envied elegance and soft palms. She
craved those adornments of person which she saw every day on the
street, conceiving them to be allies of vast importance to women.
Studying faces, she thought many of the women and girls she
chanced to meet, smiled with serenity as though forever cherished
and watched over by those they loved.
The air in the collar and cuff establishment strangled her.
She knew she was gradually and surely shrivelling in the hot,
stuffy room. The begrimed windows rattled incessantly from the
passing of elevated trains. The place was filled with a whirl of
noises and odors.
She wondered as she regarded some of the grizzled women in the
room, mere mechanical contrivances sewing seams and grinding out,
with heads bended over their work, tales of imagined or real
girlhood happiness, past drunks, the baby at home, and unpaid wages.
She speculated how long her youth would endure. She began to see
the bloom upon her cheeks as valuable.
She imagined herself, in an exasperating future, as a scrawny
woman with an eternal grievance. Too, she thought Pete to be
a very fastidious person concerning the appearance of women.
She felt she would love to see somebody entangle their fingers
in the oily beard of the fat foreigner who owned the establishment.
He was a detestable creature. He wore white socks with low shoes.
When he tired of this amusement he would go to the mummies and
moralize over them.
Usually he submitted with silent dignity to all which he had
to go through, but, at times, he was goaded into comment.
"What deh hell," he demanded once. "Look at all dese little
jugs! Hundred jugs in a row! Ten rows in a case an' 'bout a
t'ousand cases! What deh blazes use is dem?"
Evenings during the week he took her to see plays in which the
brain-clutching heroine was rescued from the palatial home of her
guardian, who is cruelly after her bonds, by the hero with the
beautiful sentiments. The latter spent most of his time out at
soak in pale-green snow storms, busy with a nickel-plated revolver,
rescuing aged strangers from villains.
Maggie lost herself in sympathy with the wanderers swooning in
snow storms beneath happy-hued church windows. And a choir within
singing "Joy to the World." To Maggie and the rest of the audience
this was transcendental realism. Joy always within, and they, like
the actor, inevitably without. Viewing it, they hugged themselves
in ecstatic pity of their imagined or real condition.
The girl thought the arrogance and granite-heartedness of the
magnate of the play was very accurately drawn. She echoed the
maledictions that the occupants of the gallery showered on this
individual when his lines compelled him to expose his extreme
Shady persons in the audience revolted from the pictured
villainy of the drama. With untiring zeal they hissed vice and
applauded virtue. Unmistakably bad men evinced an apparently
sincere admiration for virtue.
The loud gallery was overwhelmingly with the unfortunate and the
oppressed. They encouraged the struggling hero with cries, and
jeered the villain, hooting and calling attention to his whiskers.
When anybody died in the pale-green snow storms, the gallery mourned.
They sought out the painted misery and hugged it as akin.
In the hero's erratic march from poverty in the first act, to
wealth and triumph in the final one, in which he forgives all the
enemies that he has left, he was assisted by the gallery, which
applauded his generous and noble sentiments and confounded the
speeches of his opponents by making irrelevant but very sharp
remarks. Those actors who were cursed with villainy parts were
confronted at every turn by the gallery. If one of them rendered
lines containing the most subtile distinctions between right and
wrong, the gallery was immediately aware if the actor meant
wickedness, and denounced him accordingly.
The last act was a triumph for the hero, poor and of the
masses, the representative of the audience, over the villain
and the rich man, his pockets stuffed with bonds, his heart packed
with tyrannical purposes, imperturbable amid suffering.
Maggie always departed with raised spirits from the showing
places of the melodrama. She rejoiced at the way in which the poor
and virtuous eventually surmounted the wealthy and wicked. The
theatre made her think. She wondered if the culture and refinement
she had seen imitated, perhaps grotesquely, by the heroine on the
stage, could be acquired by a girl who lived in a tenement house
and worked in a shirt factory.
A group of urchins were intent upon the side door of a saloon.
Expectancy gleamed from their eyes. They were twisting their
fingers in excitement.
"Here she comes," yelled one of them suddenly.
The group of urchins burst instantly asunder and its
individual fragments were spread in a wide, respectable half circle
about the point of interest. The saloon door opened with a crash,
and the figure of a woman appeared upon the threshold. Her grey
hair fell in knotted masses about her shoulders. Her face was
crimsoned and wet with perspiration. Her eyes had a rolling glare.
"Not a damn cent more of me money will yehs ever get, not a damn cent.
I spent me money here fer t'ree years an' now yehs tells me yeh'll
sell me no more stuff! T'hell wid yeh, Johnnie Murckre! 'Disturbance'?
Disturbance be damned! T'hell wid yeh, Johnnie--"
The door received a kick of exasperation from within and the
woman lurched heavily out on the sidewalk.
The gamins in the half-circle became violently agitated.
They began to dance about and hoot and yell and jeer.
Wide dirty grins spread over each face.
The woman made a furious dash at a particularly outrageous
cluster of little boys. They laughed delightedly and scampered off
a short distance, calling out over their shoulders to her. She
stood tottering on the curb-stone and thundered at them.
"Yeh devil's kids," she howled, shaking red fists. The little boys
whooped in glee. As she started up the street they fell in behind
and marched uproariously. Occasionally she wheeled about and made
charges on them. They ran nimbly out of reach and taunted her.
In the frame of a gruesome doorway she stood for a moment cursing them.
Her hair straggled, giving her crimson features a look of insanity.
Her great fists quivered as she shook them madly in the air.
The urchins made terrific noises until she turned and
disappeared. Then they filed quietly in the way they had come.
The woman floundered about in the lower hall of the tenement house
and finally stumbled up the stairs. On an upper hall a door was
opened and a collection of heads peered curiously out, watching her.
With a wrathful snort the woman confronted the door, but it was
slammed hastily in her face and the key was turned.
She stood for a few minutes, delivering a frenzied challenge at the panels.
"Come out in deh hall, Mary Murphy, damn yeh, if yehs want a row.
Come ahn, yeh overgrown terrier, come ahn."
She began to kick the door with her great feet. She shrilly
defied the universe to appear and do battle. Her cursing trebles
brought heads from all doors save the one she threatened. Her eyes
glared in every direction. The air was full of her tossing fists.
"Come ahn, deh hull damn gang of yehs, come ahn," she roared at
the spectators. An oath or two, cat-calls, jeers and bits of
facetious advice were given in reply. Missiles clattered
about her feet.
"What deh hell's deh matter wid yeh?" said a voice in the
gathered gloom, and Jimmie came forward. He carried a tin dinner-
pail in his hand and under his arm a brown truckman's apron done in
a bundle. "What deh hell's wrong?" he demanded.
"Come out, all of yehs, come out," his mother was howling.
"Come ahn an' I'll stamp her damn brains under me feet."
"Shet yer face, an' come home, yeh damned old fool," roared
Jimmie at her. She strided up to him and twirled her fingers in
his face. Her eyes were darting flames of unreasoning rage and her
frame trembled with eagerness for a fight.
"T'hell wid yehs! An' who deh hell are yehs? I ain't givin' a snap
of me fingers fer yehs," she bawled at him. She turned her huge back
in tremendous disdain and climbed the stairs to the next floor.
Jimmie followed, cursing blackly. At the top of the flight he
seized his mother's arm and started to drag her toward the door of
"Come home, damn yeh," he gritted between his teeth.
"Take yer hands off me! Take yer hands off me," shrieked his mother.
She raised her arm and whirled her great fist at her son's
face. Jimmie dodged his head and the blow struck him in the back
of the neck. "Damn yeh," gritted he again. He threw out his left
hand and writhed his fingers about her middle arm. The mother and
the son began to sway and struggle like gladiators.
"Whoop!" said the Rum Alley tenement house. The hall filled
with interested spectators.
"Hi, ol' lady, dat was a dandy!"
"T'ree to one on deh red!"
"Ah, stop yer damn scrappin'!"
The door of the Johnson home opened and Maggie looked out.
Jimmie made a supreme cursing effort and hurled his mother
into the room. He quickly followed and closed the door.
The Rum Alley tenement swore disappointedly and retired.
The mother slowly gathered herself up from the floor.
Her eyes glittered menacingly upon her children.
"Here, now," said Jimmie, "we've had enough of dis. Sit down,
an' don' make no trouble."
He grasped her arm, and twisting it, forced her into a
"Keep yer hands off me," roared his mother again.
"Damn yer ol' hide," yelled Jimmie, madly. Maggie shrieked
and ran into the other room. To her there came the sound of a
storm of crashes and curses. There was a great final thump and
Jimmie's voice cried: "Dere, damn yeh, stay still." Maggie opened
the door now, and went warily out. "Oh, Jimmie."
He was leaning against the wall and swearing. Blood stood
upon bruises on his knotty fore-arms where they had scraped against
the floor or the walls in the scuffle. The mother lay screeching
on the floor, the tears running down her furrowed face.
Maggie, standing in the middle of the room, gazed about her.
The usual upheaval of the tables and chairs had taken place.
Crockery was strewn broadcast in fragments. The stove had been
disturbed on its legs, and now leaned idiotically to one side.
A pail had been upset and water spread in all directions.
The door opened and Pete appeared. He shrugged his shoulders.
"Oh, Gawd," he observed.
He walked over to Maggie and whispered in her ear. "Ah, what
deh hell, Mag? Come ahn and we'll have a hell of a time."
The mother in the corner upreared her head and shook her
"Teh hell wid him and you," she said, glowering at her
daughter in the gloom. Her eyes seemed to burn balefully. "Yeh've
gone teh deh devil, Mag Johnson, yehs knows yehs have gone teh deh
devil. Yer a disgrace teh yer people, damn yeh. An' now, git out
an' go ahn wid dat doe-faced jude of yours. Go teh hell wid him,
damn yeh, an' a good riddance. Go teh hell an' see how yeh likes
Maggie gazed long at her mother.
"Go teh hell now, an' see how yeh likes it. Git out. I won't
have sech as yehs in me house! Get out, d'yeh hear! Damn yeh,
The girl began to tremble.
At this instant Pete came forward. "Oh, what deh hell, Mag, see,"
whispered he softly in her ear. "Dis all blows over. See? Deh ol'
woman 'ill be all right in deh mornin'. Come ahn out wid me!
We'll have a hell of a time."
The woman on the floor cursed. Jimmie was intent upon his
bruised fore-arms. The girl cast a glance about the room filled with
a chaotic mass of debris, and at the red, writhing body of her mother.
"Go teh hell an' good riddance."
Jimmie had an idea it wasn't common courtesy for a friend to
come to one's home and ruin one's sister. But he was not sure how
much Pete knew about the rules of politeness.
The following night he returned home from work at rather a
late hour in the evening. In passing through the halls he came
upon the gnarled and leathery old woman who possessed the music
box. She was grinning in the dim light that drifted through dust-
stained panes. She beckoned to him with a smudged forefinger.
"Ah, Jimmie, what do yehs t'ink I got onto las' night. It was
deh funnies' t'ing I ever saw," she cried, coming close to him and
leering. She was trembling with eagerness to tell her tale. "I
was by me door las' night when yer sister and her jude feller came
in late, oh, very late. An' she, the dear, she was a-cryin' as if
her heart would break, she was. It was deh funnies' t'ing I ever
saw. An' right out here by me door she asked him did he love her,
did he. An' she was a-cryin' as if her heart would break, poor
t'ing. An' him, I could see by deh way what he said it dat she had
been askin' orften, he says: 'Oh, hell, yes,' he says, says he,
'Oh, hell, yes.'"
Storm-clouds swept over Jimmie's face, but he turned from the
leathery old woman and plodded on up-stairs.
"Oh, hell, yes," called she after him. She laughed a laugh
that was like a prophetic croak. "'Oh, hell, yes,' he says, says
he, 'Oh, hell, yes.'"
There was no one in at home. The rooms showed that attempts
had been made at tidying them. Parts of the wreckage of the day
before had been repaired by an unskilful hand. A chair or two and
the table, stood uncertainly upon legs. The floor had been newly
swept. Too, the blue ribbons had been restored to the curtains,
and the lambrequin, with its immense sheaves of yellow wheat
and red roses of equal size, had been returned, in a worn and sorry
state, to its position at the mantel. Maggie's jacket and hat were
gone from the nail behind the door.
Jimmie walked to the window and began to look through the
blurred glass. It occurred to him to vaguely wonder, for an
instant, if some of the women of his acquaintance had brothers.
Suddenly, however, he began to swear.
"But he was me frien'! I brought 'im here! Dat's deh hell of it!"
He fumed about the room, his anger gradually rising to the
"I'll kill deh jay! Dat's what I'll do! I'll kill deh jay!"
He clutched his hat and sprang toward the door. But it opened
and his mother's great form blocked the passage.
"What deh hell's deh matter wid yeh?" exclaimed she, coming
into the rooms.
Jimmie gave vent to a sardonic curse and then laughed heavily.
"Well, Maggie's gone teh deh devil! Dat's what! See?"
"Eh?" said his mother.
"Maggie's gone teh deh devil! Are yehs deaf?" roared Jimmie,
"Deh hell she has," murmured the mother, astounded.
Jimmie grunted, and then began to stare out at the window.
His mother sat down in a chair, but a moment later sprang erect and
delivered a maddened whirl of oaths. Her son turned to look at her
as she reeled and swayed in the middle of the room, her fierce face
convulsed with passion, her blotched arms raised high in imprecation.
"May Gawd curse her forever," she shrieked. "May she eat
nothin' but stones and deh dirt in deh street. May she sleep in
deh gutter an' never see deh sun shine agin. Deh damn--"
"Here, now," said her son. "Take a drop on yourself."
The mother raised lamenting eyes to the ceiling.
"She's deh devil's own chil', Jimmie," she whispered. "Ah,
who would t'ink such a bad girl could grow up in our fambly,
Jimmie, me son. Many deh hour I've spent in talk wid dat girl an'
tol' her if she ever went on deh streets I'd see her damned. An'
after all her bringin' up an' what I tol' her and talked wid her,
she goes teh deh bad, like a duck teh water."
The tears rolled down her furrowed face. Her hands trembled.
"An' den when dat Sadie MacMallister next door to us was sent
teh deh devil by dat feller what worked in deh soap-factory,
didn't I tell our Mag dat if she--"
"Ah, dat's annuder story," interrupted the brother. "Of
course, dat Sadie was nice an' all dat--but--see--it ain't dessame
as if--well, Maggie was diff'ent--see--she was diff'ent."
He was trying to formulate a theory that he had always
unconsciously held, that all sisters, excepting his own, could
advisedly be ruined.
He suddenly broke out again. "I'll go t'ump hell outa deh mug
what did her deh harm. I'll kill 'im! He t'inks he kin scrap,
but when he gits me a-chasin' 'im he'll fin' out where he's wrong,
deh damned duffer. I'll wipe up deh street wid 'im."
In a fury he plunged out of the doorway. As he vanished the
mother raised her head and lifted both hands, entreating.
"May Gawd curse her forever," she cried.
In the darkness of the hallway Jimmie discerned a knot of women
talking volubly. When he strode by they paid no attention to him.
"She allus was a bold thing," he heard one of them cry in an
eager voice. "Dere wasn't a feller come teh deh house but she'd
try teh mash 'im. My Annie says deh shameless t'ing tried teh
ketch her feller, her own feller, what we useter know his fader."
"I could a' tol' yehs dis two years ago," said a woman, in a
key of triumph. "Yessir, it was over two years ago dat I says
teh my ol' man, I says, 'Dat Johnson girl ain't straight,' I says.
'Oh, hell,' he says. 'Oh, hell.' 'Dat's all right,' I says,
'but I know what I knows,' I says, 'an' it 'ill come out later.
You wait an' see,' I says, 'you see.'"
"Anybody what had eyes could see dat dere was somethin' wrong
wid dat girl. I didn't like her actions."
On the street Jimmie met a friend. "What deh hell?" asked the
Jimmie explained. "An' I'll t'ump 'im till he can't stand."
"Oh, what deh hell," said the friend. "What's deh use!
Yeh'll git pulled in! Everybody 'ill be onto it! An' ten plunks!
Jimmie was determined. "He t'inks he kin scrap, but he'll
fin' out diff'ent."
"Gee," remonstrated the friend. "What deh hell?"
On a corner a glass-fronted building shed a yellow glare upon
the pavements. The open mouth of a saloon called seductively to
passengers to enter and annihilate sorrow or create rage.
The interior of the place was papered in olive and bronze tints
of imitation leather. A shining bar of counterfeit massiveness
extended down the side of the room. Behind it a great
mahogany-appearing sideboard reached the ceiling. Upon its
shelves rested pyramids of shimmering glasses that were never
disturbed. Mirrors set in the face of the sideboard multiplied
them. Lemons, oranges and paper napkins, arranged with
mathematical precision, sat among the glasses. Many-hued decanters
of liquor perched at regular intervals on the lower shelves.
A nickel-plated cash register occupied a position in the exact
centre of the general effect. The elementary senses of it all
seemed to be opulence and geometrical accuracy.
Across from the bar a smaller counter held a collection of plates
upon which swarmed frayed fragments of crackers, slices of boiled ham,
dishevelled bits of cheese, and pickles swimming in vinegar.
An odor of grasping, begrimed hands and munching mouths pervaded.
Pete, in a white jacket, was behind the bar bending
expectantly toward a quiet stranger. "A beeh," said the man.
Pete drew a foam-topped glassful and set it dripping upon the bar.
At this moment the light bamboo doors at the entrance swung
open and crashed against the siding. Jimmie and a companion
entered. They swaggered unsteadily but belligerently toward the
bar and looked at Pete with bleared and blinking eyes.
"Gin," said Jimmie.
"Gin," said the companion.
Pete slid a bottle and two glasses along the bar. He bended
his head sideways as he assiduously polished away with a napkin at
the gleaming wood. He had a look of watchfulness upon his
Jimmie and his companion kept their eyes upon the bartender
and conversed loudly in tones of contempt.
"He's a dindy masher, ain't he, by Gawd?" laughed Jimmie.
"Oh, hell, yes," said the companion, sneering widely. "He's
great, he is. Git onto deh mug on deh blokie. Dat's enough to
make a feller turn hand-springs in 'is sleep."
The quiet stranger moved himself and his glass a trifle
further away and maintained an attitude of oblivion.
"Gee! ain't he hot stuff!"
"Git onto his shape! Great Gawd!"
"Hey," cried Jimmie, in tones of command. Pete came along
slowly, with a sullen dropping of the under lip.
"Well," he growled, "what's eatin' yehs?"
"Gin," said Jimmie.
"Gin," said the companion.
As Pete confronted them with the bottle and the glasses, they
laughed in his face. Jimmie's companion, evidently overcome with
merriment, pointed a grimy forefinger in Pete's direction.
"Say, Jimmie," demanded he, "what deh hell is dat behind deh
"Damned if I knows," replied Jimmie. They laughed loudly.
Pete put down a bottle with a bang and turned a formidable face
toward them. He disclosed his teeth and his shoulders heaved
"You fellers can't guy me," he said. "Drink yer stuff an' git
out an' don' make no trouble."
Instantly the laughter faded from the faces of the two men and
expressions of offended dignity immediately came.
"Who deh hell has said anyt'ing teh you," cried they in the
The quiet stranger looked at the door calculatingly.
"Ah, come off," said Pete to the two men. "Don't pick me up
for no jay. Drink yer rum an' git out an' don' make no trouble."
"Oh, deh hell," airily cried Jimmie.
"Oh, deh hell," airily repeated his companion.
"We goes when we git ready! See!" continued Jimmie.
"Well," said Pete in a threatening voice, "don' make no
Jimmie suddenly leaned forward with his head on one side.
He snarled like a wild animal.
"Well, what if we does? See?" said he.
Dark blood flushed into Pete's face, and he shot a lurid
glance at Jimmie.
"Well, den we'll see whose deh bes' man, you or me," he said.
The quiet stranger moved modestly toward the door.
Jimmie began to swell with valor.
"Don' pick me up fer no tenderfoot. When yeh tackles me yeh
tackles one of deh bes' men in deh city. See? I'm a scrapper,
I am. Ain't dat right, Billie?"
"Sure, Mike," responded his companion in tones of conviction.
"Oh, hell," said Pete, easily. "Go fall on yerself."
The two men again began to laugh.
"What deh hell is dat talkin'?" cried the companion.
"Damned if I knows," replied Jimmie with exaggerated contempt.
Pete made a furious gesture. "Git outa here now, an' don' make
no trouble. See? Youse fellers er lookin' fer a scrap an' it's
damn likely yeh'll fin' one if yeh keeps on shootin' off yer mout's.
I know yehs! See? I kin lick better men dan yehs ever saw in yer lifes.
Dat's right! See? Don' pick me up fer no stuff er yeh might be jolted
out in deh street before yeh knows where yeh is. When I comes from behind
dis bar, I t'rows yehs bote inteh deh street. See?"
"Oh, hell," cried the two men in chorus.
The glare of a panther came into Pete's eyes. "Dat's what I said!
He came through a passage at the end of the bar and swelled down upon
the two men. They stepped promptly forward and crowded close to him.
They bristled like three roosters. They moved their heads
pugnaciously and kept their shoulders braced. The nervous muscles
about each mouth twitched with a forced smile of mockery.
"Well, what deh hell yer goin' teh do?" gritted Jimmie.
Pete stepped warily back, waving his hands before him to keep
the men from coming too near.
"Well, what deh hell yer goin' teh do?" repeated Jimmie's ally.
They kept close to him, taunting and leering. They strove
to make him attempt the initial blow.
"Keep back, now! Don' crowd me," ominously said Pete.
Again they chorused in contempt. "Oh, hell!"
In a small, tossing group, the three men edged for positions
like frigates contemplating battle.
"Well, why deh hell don' yeh try teh t'row us out?" cried Jimmie
and his ally with copious sneers.
The bravery of bull-dogs sat upon the faces of the men.
Their clenched fists moved like eager weapons.
The allied two jostled the bartender's elbows, glaring at him
with feverish eyes and forcing him toward the wall.
Suddenly Pete swore redly. The flash of action gleamed from
his eyes. He threw back his arm and aimed a tremendous, lightning-
like blow at Jimmie's face. His foot swung a step forward and the
weight of his body was behind his fist. Jimmie ducked his head,
Bowery-like, with the quickness of a cat. The fierce, answering
blows of him and his ally crushed on Pete's bowed head.
The quiet stranger vanished.
The arms of the combatants whirled in the air like flails.
The faces of the men, at first flushed to flame-colored anger, now
began to fade to the pallor of warriors in the blood and heat of a
battle. Their lips curled back and stretched tightly over the gums
in ghoul-like grins. Through their white, gripped teeth struggled
hoarse whisperings of oaths. Their eyes glittered with murderous fire.
Each head was huddled between its owner's shoulders, and arms
were swinging with marvelous rapidity. Feet scraped to and fro
with a loud scratching sound upon the sanded floor. Blows left
crimson blotches upon pale skin. The curses of the first quarter
minute of the fight died away. The breaths of the fighters came
wheezingly from their lips and the three chests were straining and
heaving. Pete at intervals gave vent to low, labored hisses, that
sounded like a desire to kill. Jimmie's ally gibbered at times like
a wounded maniac. Jimmie was silent, fighting with the face
of a sacrificial priest. The rage of fear shone in all their
eyes and their blood-colored fists swirled.
At a tottering moment a blow from Pete's hand struck the ally
and he crashed to the floor. He wriggled instantly to his feet and
grasping the quiet stranger's beer glass from the bar, hurled it at
High on the wall it burst like a bomb, shivering fragments
flying in all directions. Then missiles came to every man's hand.
The place had heretofore appeared free of things to throw, but
suddenly glass and bottles went singing through the air. They were
thrown point blank at bobbing heads. The pyramid of shimmering
glasses, that had never been disturbed, changed to cascades as
heavy bottles were flung into them. Mirrors splintered to nothing.
The three frothing creatures on the floor buried themselves in
a frenzy for blood. There followed in the wake of missiles and
fists some unknown prayers, perhaps for death.
The quiet stranger had sprawled very pyrotechnically out on
the sidewalk. A laugh ran up and down the avenue for the half
of a block.
"Dey've trowed a bloke inteh deh street."
People heard the sound of breaking glass and shuffling feet
within the saloon and came running. A small group, bending down to
look under the bamboo doors, watching the fall of glass, and three
pairs of violent legs, changed in a moment to a crowd.
A policeman came charging down the sidewalk and bounced
through the doors into the saloon. The crowd bended and surged in
absorbing anxiety to see.
Jimmie caught first sight of the on-coming interruption. On his feet
he had the same regard for a policeman that, when on his truck,
he had for a fire engine. He howled and ran for the side door.
The officer made a terrific advance, club in hand. One comprehensive
sweep of the long night stick threw the ally to the floor and forced
Pete to a corner. With his disengaged hand he made a furious effort
at Jimmie's coat-tails. Then he regained his balance and paused.
"Well, well, you are a pair of pictures. What in hell yeh
been up to?"
Jimmie, with his face drenched in blood, escaped up a side street,
pursued a short distance by some of the more law-loving, or excited
individuals of the crowd.
Later, from a corner safely dark, he saw the policeman, the
ally and the bartender emerge from the saloon. Pete locked the
doors and then followed up the avenue in the rear of the crowd-
encompassed policeman and his charge.
On first thoughts Jimmie, with his heart throbbing at battle heat,
started to go desperately to the rescue of his friend, but he halted.
"Ah, what deh hell?" he demanded of himself.
In a hall of irregular shape sat Pete and Maggie drinking
beer. A submissive orchestra dictated to by a spectacled man with
frowsy hair and a dress suit, industriously followed the bobs of
his head and the waves of his baton. A ballad singer, in a dress
of flaming scarlet, sang in the inevitable voice of brass. When
she vanished, men seated at the tables near the front applauded
loudly, pounding the polished wood with their beer glasses. She
returned attired in less gown, and sang again. She received
another enthusiastic encore. She reappeared in still less gown and
danced. The deafening rumble of glasses and clapping of hands that
followed her exit indicated an overwhelming desire to have her come
on for the fourth time, but the curiosity of the audience was not
Maggie was pale. From her eyes had been plucked all look of
self-reliance. She leaned with a dependent air toward her
companion. She was timid, as if fearing his anger or displeasure.
She seemed to beseech tenderness of him.
Pete's air of distinguished valor had grown upon him until it
threatened stupendous dimensions. He was infinitely gracious to
the girl. It was apparent to her that his condescension was a marvel.
He could appear to strut even while sitting still and he showed that
he was a lion of lordly characteristics by the air with which he spat.
With Maggie gazing at him wonderingly, he took pride in commanding
the waiters who were, however, indifferent or deaf.
"Hi, you, git a russle on yehs! What deh hell yehs lookin' at?
Two more beehs, d'yeh hear?"
He leaned back and critically regarded the person of a girl
with a straw-colored wig who upon the stage was flinging her heels
in somewhat awkward imitation of a well-known danseuse.
At times Maggie told Pete long confidential tales of her
former home life, dwelling upon the escapades of the other members
of the family and the difficulties she had to combat in order to
obtain a degree of comfort. He responded in tones of philanthropy.
He pressed her arm with an air of reassuring proprietorship.
"Dey was damn jays," he said, denouncing the mother and brother.
The sound of the music which, by the efforts of the frowsy-
headed leader, drifted to her ears through the smoke-filled
atmosphere, made the girl dream. She thought of her former
Rum Alley environment and turned to regard Pete's strong protecting
fists. She thought of the collar and cuff manufactory and the
eternal moan of the proprietor: "What een hell do you sink I pie
fife dolla a week for? Play? No, py damn." She contemplated
Pete's man-subduing eyes and noted that wealth and prosperity was
indicated by his clothes. She imagined a future, rose-tinted,
because of its distance from all that she previously had experienced.
As to the present she perceived only vague reasons to be
miserable. Her life was Pete's and she considered him worthy of
the charge. She would be disturbed by no particular apprehensions,
so long as Pete adored her as he now said he did. She did not feel
like a bad woman. To her knowledge she had never seen any better.
At times men at other tables regarded the girl furtively.
Pete, aware of it, nodded at her and grinned. He felt proud.
"Mag, yer a bloomin' good-looker," he remarked, studying her
face through the haze. The men made Maggie fear, but she blushed
at Pete's words as it became apparent to her that she was the apple
of his eye.
Grey-headed men, wonderfully pathetic in their dissipation,
stared at her through clouds. Smooth-cheeked boys, some of them
with faces of stone and mouths of sin, not nearly so pathetic as
the grey heads, tried to find the girl's eyes in the smoke wreaths.
Maggie considered she was not what they thought her. She confined
her glances to Pete and the stage.
The orchestra played negro melodies and a versatile drummer
pounded, whacked, clattered and scratched on a dozen machines to
Those glances of the men, shot at Maggie from under half-closed lids,
made her tremble. She thought them all to be worse men than Pete.
"Come, let's go," she said.
As they went out Maggie perceived two women seated at a table
with some men. They were painted and their cheeks had lost their
roundness. As she passed them the girl, with a shrinking movement,
drew back her skirts.
Jimmie did not return home for a number of days after the
fight with Pete in the saloon. When he did, he approached with
He found his mother raving. Maggie had not returned home.
The parent continually wondered how her daughter could come to such
a pass. She had never considered Maggie as a pearl dropped
unstained into Rum Alley from Heaven, but she could not conceive
how it was possible for her daughter to fall so low as to bring
disgrace upon her family. She was terrific in denunciation of the
The fact that the neighbors talked of it, maddened her. When
women came in, and in the course of their conversation casually
asked, "Where's Maggie dese days?" the mother shook her fuzzy head
at them and appalled them with curses. Cunning hints inviting
confidence she rebuffed with violence.