Chapter: In a hilarious hall there were twenty-eight tables and twenty-eight
women and a crowd of smoking men.  Valiant noise was made on a stage at
the end of the hall by an orchestra composed of men who looked as if
they had just happened in.  Soiled waiters ran to and fro, swooping
down like hawks on the unwary in the throng; clattering along the
aisles with trays covered with glasses; stumbling over women's skirts
and charging two prices for everything but beer, all with a swiftness
that blurred the view of the cocoanut palms and dusty monstrosities
painted upon the walls of the room.  A bouncer, with an immense load of
business upon his hands, plunged about in the crowd, dragging bashful
strangers to prominent chairs, ordering waiters here and there and
quarreling furiously with men who wanted to sing with the orchestra.

The usual smoke cloud was present, but so dense that heads and arms
seemed entangled in it.  The rumble of conversation was replaced by a
roar.  Plenteous oaths heaved through the air.  The room rang with the
shrill voices of women bubbling o'er with drink-laughter.  The chief
element in the music of the orchestra was speed.  The musicians played
in intent fury.  A woman was singing and smiling upon the stage, but no
one took notice of her.  The rate at which the piano, cornet and
violins were going, seemed to impart wildness to the half-drunken
crowd.  Beer glasses were emptied at a gulp and conversation became a
rapid chatter.  The smoke eddied and swirled like a shadowy river
hurrying toward some unseen falls.  Pete and Maggie entered the hall
and took chairs at a table near the door.  The woman who was seated
there made an attempt to occupy Pete's attention and, failing, went
away.

Three weeks had passed since the girl had left home.  The air of
spaniel-like dependence had been magnified and showed its direct effect
in the peculiar off-handedness and ease of Pete's ways toward her.

She followed Pete's eyes with hers, anticipating with smiles gracious
looks from him.

A woman of brilliance and audacity, accompanied by a mere boy, came
into the place and took seats near them.

At once Pete sprang to his feet, his face beaming with glad surprise.

"By Gawd, there's Nellie," he cried.

He went over to the table and held out an eager hand to the woman.

"Why, hello, Pete, me boy, how are you," said she, giving him her
fingers.

Maggie took instant note of the woman.  She perceived that her black
dress fitted her to perfection.  Her linen collar and cuffs were
spotless.  Tan gloves were stretched over her well-shaped hands.  A hat
of a prevailing fashion perched jauntily upon her dark hair.  She wore
no jewelry and was painted with no apparent paint.  She looked
clear-eyed through the stares of the men.

"Sit down, and call your lady-friend over," she said cordially to Pete.
At his beckoning Maggie came and sat between Pete and the mere boy.

"I thought yeh were gone away fer good," began Pete, at once.  "When
did yeh git back?  How did dat Buff'lo bus'ness turn out?"

The woman shrugged her shoulders.  "Well, he didn't have as many stamps
as he tried to make out, so I shook him, that's all."

"Well, I'm glad teh see yehs back in deh city," said Pete, with awkward
gallantry.

He and the woman entered into a long conversation, exchanging
reminiscences of days together.  Maggie sat still, unable to formulate
an intelligent sentence upon the conversation and painfully aware of it.

She saw Pete's eyes sparkle as he gazed upon the handsome stranger.  He
listened smilingly to all she said.  The woman was familiar with all
his affairs, asked him about mutual friends, and knew the amount of his
salary.

She paid no attention to Maggie, looking toward her once or twice and
apparently seeing the wall beyond.

The mere boy was sulky.  In the beginning he had welcomed with
acclamations the additions.

"Let's all have a drink!  What'll you take, Nell?  And you, Miss
what's-your-name.  Have a drink, Mr. -----, you, I mean."

He had shown a sprightly desire to do the talking for the company and
tell all about his family.  In a loud voice he declaimed on various
topics.  He assumed a patronizing air toward Pete.  As Maggie was
silent, he paid no attention to her.  He made a great show of lavishing
wealth upon the woman of brilliance and audacity.

"Do keep still, Freddie!  You gibber like an ape, dear," said the woman
to him.  She turned away and devoted her attention to Pete.

"We'll have many a good time together again, eh?"

"Sure, Mike," said Pete, enthusiastic at once.

"Say," whispered she, leaning forward, "let's go over to Billie's and
have a heluva time."

"Well, it's dis way!  See?" said Pete.  "I got dis lady frien' here."

"Oh, t'hell with her," argued the woman.

Pete appeared disturbed.

"All right," said she, nodding her head at him.  "All right for you!
We'll see the next time you ask me to go anywheres with you."

Pete squirmed.

"Say," he said, beseechingly, "come wid me a minit an' I'll tell yer
why."

The woman waved her hand.

"Oh, that's all right, you needn't explain, you know.  You wouldn't
come merely because you wouldn't come, that's all there is of it."

To Pete's visible distress she turned to the mere boy, bringing him
speedily from a terrific rage.  He had been debating whether it would
be the part of a man to pick a quarrel with Pete, or would he be
justified in striking him savagely with his beer glass without warning.
But he recovered himself when the woman turned to renew her smilings.
He beamed upon her with an expression that was somewhat tipsy and
inexpressibly tender.

"Say, shake that Bowery jay," requested he, in a loud whisper.

"Freddie, you are so droll," she replied.

Pete reached forward and touched the woman on the arm.

"Come out a minit while I tells yeh why I can't go wid yer.  Yer doin'
me dirt, Nell!  I never taut ye'd do me dirt, Nell.  Come on, will
yer?"  He spoke in tones of injury.

"Why, I don't see why I should be interested in your explanations,"
said the woman, with a coldness that seemed to reduce Pete to a pulp.

His eyes pleaded with her.  "Come out a minit while I tells yeh."

The woman nodded slightly at Maggie and the mere boy, "'Scuse me."

The mere boy interrupted his loving smile and turned a shrivelling
glare upon Pete.  His boyish countenance flushed and he spoke, in a
whine, to the woman:

"Oh, I say, Nellie, this ain't a square deal, you know.  You aren't
goin' to leave me and go off with that duffer, are you?  I should
think--"

"Why, you dear boy, of course I'm not," cried the woman,
affectionately.  She bended over and whispered in his ear.  He smiled
again and settled in his chair as if resolved to wait patiently.

As the woman walked down between the rows of tables, Pete was at her
shoulder talking earnestly, apparently in explanation.  The woman waved
her hands with studied airs of indifference.  The doors swung behind
them, leaving Maggie and the mere boy seated at the table.

Maggie was dazed.  She could dimly perceive that something stupendous
had happened.  She wondered why Pete saw fit to remonstrate with the
woman, pleading for forgiveness with his eyes.  She thought she noted
an air of submission about her leonine Pete.  She was astounded.

The mere boy occupied himself with cock-tails and a cigar.  He was
tranquilly silent for half an hour.  Then he bestirred himself and
spoke.

"Well," he said, sighing, "I knew this was the way it would be." There
was another stillness.  The mere boy seemed to be musing.

"She was pulling m'leg.  That's the whole amount of it," he said,
suddenly.  "It's a bloomin' shame the way that girl does.  Why, I've
spent over two dollars in drinks to-night.  And she goes off with that
plug-ugly who looks as if he had been hit in the face with a coin-die.
I call it rocky treatment for a fellah like me.  Here, waiter, bring me
a cock-tail and make it damned strong."

Maggie made no reply.  She was watching the doors.  "It's a mean piece
of business," complained the mere boy.  He explained to her how amazing
it was that anybody should treat him in such a manner.  "But I'll get
square with her, you bet.  She won't get far ahead of yours truly, you
know," he added, winking.  "I'll tell her plainly that it was bloomin'
mean business.  And she won't come it over me with any of her
'now-Freddie-dears.'  She thinks my name is Freddie, you know, but of
course it ain't.  I always tell these people some name like that,
because if they got onto your right name they might use it sometime.
Understand?  Oh, they don't fool me much."

Maggie was paying no attention, being intent upon the doors.  The mere
boy relapsed into a period of gloom, during which he exterminated a
number of cock-tails with a determined air, as if replying defiantly to
fate.  He occasionally broke forth into sentences composed of
invectives joined together in a long string.

The girl was still staring at the doors.  After a time the mere boy
began to see cobwebs just in front of his nose.  He spurred himself
into being agreeable and insisted upon her having a charlotte-russe and
a glass of beer.

"They's gone," he remarked, "they's gone."  He looked at her through
the smoke wreaths.  "Shay, lil' girl, we mightish well make bes' of it.
You ain't such bad-lookin' girl, y'know.  Not half bad.  Can't come up
to Nell, though.  No, can't do it!  Well, I should shay not!  Nell
fine-lookin' girl!  F--i--n--ine.  You look damn bad longsider her, but
by y'self ain't so bad.  Have to do anyhow.  Nell gone.  On'y you left.
Not half bad, though."

Maggie stood up.

"I'm going home," she said.

The mere boy started.

"Eh?  What?  Home," he cried, struck with amazement.  "I beg pardon,
did hear say home?"

"I'm going home," she repeated.

"Great Gawd, what hava struck," demanded the mere boy of himself,
stupefied.

In a semi-comatose state he conducted her on board an up-town car,
ostentatiously paid her fare, leered kindly at her through the rear
window and fell off the steps.



A forlorn woman went along a lighted avenue.  The street was filled
with people desperately bound on missions.  An endless crowd darted at
the elevated station stairs and the horse cars were thronged with
owners of bundles.

The pace of the forlorn woman was slow.  She was apparently searching
for some one.  She loitered near the doors of saloons and watched men
emerge from them.  She scanned furtively the faces in the rushing
stream of pedestrians.  Hurrying men, bent on catching some boat or
train, jostled her elbows, failing to notice her, their thoughts fixed
on distant dinners.

The forlorn woman had a peculiar face.  Her smile was no smile.  But
when in repose her features had a shadowy look that was like a sardonic
grin, as if some one had sketched with cruel forefinger indelible lines
about her mouth.

Jimmie came strolling up the avenue.  The woman encountered him with an
aggrieved air.

"Oh, Jimmie, I've been lookin' all over fer yehs--," she began.

Jimmie made an impatient gesture and quickened his pace.

"Ah, don't bodder me!  Good Gawd!" he said, with the savageness of a
man whose life is pestered.

The woman followed him along the sidewalk in somewhat the manner of a
suppliant.

"But, Jimmie," she said, "yehs told me ye'd--"

Jimmie turned upon her fiercely as if resolved to make a last stand for
comfort and peace.

"Say, fer Gawd's sake, Hattie, don' foller me from one end of deh city
teh deh odder.  Let up, will yehs!  Give me a minute's res', can't
yehs?  Yehs makes me tired, allus taggin' me.  See?  Ain' yehs got no
sense.  Do yehs want people teh get onto me?  Go chase yerself, fer
Gawd's sake."

The woman stepped closer and laid her fingers on his arm.  "But,
look-a-here--"

Jimmie snarled.  "Oh, go teh hell."

He darted into the front door of a convenient saloon and a moment later
came out into the shadows that surrounded the side door.  On the
brilliantly lighted avenue he perceived the forlorn woman dodging about
like a scout.  Jimmie laughed with an air of relief and went away.

When he arrived home he found his mother clamoring.  Maggie had
returned.  She stood shivering beneath the torrent of her mother's
wrath.

"Well, I'm damned," said Jimmie in greeting.

His mother, tottering about the room, pointed a quivering forefinger.

"Lookut her, Jimmie, lookut her.  Dere's yer sister, boy.  Dere's yer
sister.  Lookut her!  Lookut her!"

She screamed in scoffing laughter.

The girl stood in the middle of the room.  She edged about as if unable
to find a place on the floor to put her feet.

"Ha, ha, ha," bellowed the mother.  "Dere she stands!  Ain' she purty?
Lookut her!  Ain' she sweet, deh beast?  Lookut her!  Ha, ha, lookut
her!"

She lurched forward and put her red and seamed hands upon her
daughter's face.  She bent down and peered keenly up into the eyes of
the girl.

"Oh, she's jes' dessame as she ever was, ain' she?  She's her mudder's
purty darlin' yit, ain' she?  Lookut her, Jimmie!  Come here, fer
Gawd's sake, and lookut her."

The loud, tremendous sneering of the mother brought the denizens of the
Rum Alley tenement to their doors.  Women came in the hallways.
Children scurried to and fro.

"What's up?  Dat Johnson party on anudder tear?"

"Naw!  Young Mag's come home!"

"Deh hell yeh say?"

Through the open door curious eyes stared in at Maggie.  Children
ventured into the room and ogled her, as if they formed the front row
at a theatre.  Women, without, bended toward each other and whispered,
nodding their heads with airs of profound philosophy.  A baby, overcome
with curiosity concerning this object at which all were looking, sidled
forward and touched her dress, cautiously, as if investigating a
red-hot stove.  Its mother's voice rang out like a warning trumpet.
She rushed forward and grabbed her child, casting a terrible look of
indignation at the girl.

Maggie's mother paced to and fro, addressing the doorful of eyes,
expounding like a glib showman at a museum.  Her voice rang through the
building.

"Dere she stands," she cried, wheeling suddenly and pointing with
dramatic finger.  "Dere she stands!  Lookut her!  Ain' she a dindy?
An' she was so good as to come home teh her mudder, she was!  Ain' she
a beaut'?  Ain' she a dindy?  Fer Gawd's sake!"

The jeering cries ended in another burst of shrill laughter.

The girl seemed to awaken.  "Jimmie--"

He drew hastily back from her.

"Well, now, yer a hell of a t'ing, ain' yeh?" he said, his lips curling
in scorn.  Radiant virtue sat upon his brow and his repelling hands
expressed horror of contamination.

Maggie turned and went.

The crowd at the door fell back precipitately.  A baby falling down in
front of the door, wrenched a scream like a wounded animal from its
mother.  Another woman sprang forward and picked it up, with a
chivalrous air, as if rescuing a human being from an oncoming express
train.

As the girl passed down through the hall, she went before open doors
framing more eyes strangely microscopic, and sending broad beams of
inquisitive light into the darkness of her path.  On the second floor
she met the gnarled old woman who possessed the music box.

"So," she cried, "'ere yehs are back again, are yehs?  An' dey've
kicked yehs out?  Well, come in an' stay wid me teh-night.  I ain' got
no moral standin'."

From above came an unceasing babble of tongues, over all of which rang
the mother's derisive laughter.



Pete did not consider that he had ruined Maggie.  If he had thought
that her soul could never smile again, he would have believed the
mother and brother, who were pyrotechnic over the affair, to be
responsible for it.

Besides, in his world, souls did not insist upon being able to smile.
"What deh hell?"

He felt a trifle entangled.  It distressed him.  Revelations and scenes
might bring upon him the wrath of the owner of the saloon, who insisted
upon respectability of an advanced type.

"What deh hell do dey wanna raise such a smoke about it fer?" demanded
he of himself, disgusted with the attitude of the family.  He saw no
necessity for anyone's losing their equilibrium merely because their
sister or their daughter had stayed away from home.

Searching about in his mind for possible reasons for their conduct, he
came upon the conclusion that Maggie's motives were correct, but that
the two others wished to snare him.  He felt pursued.

The woman of brilliance and audacity whom he had met in the hilarious
hall showed a disposition to ridicule him.

"A little pale thing with no spirit," she said.  "Did you note the
expression of her eyes?  There was something in them about pumpkin pie
and virtue.  That is a peculiar way the left corner of her mouth has of
twitching, isn't it?  Dear, dear, my cloud-compelling Pete, what are
you coming to?"

Pete asserted at once that he never was very much interested in the
girl.  The woman interrupted him, laughing.

"Oh, it's not of the slightest consequence to me, my dear young man.
You needn't draw maps for my benefit.  Why should I be concerned about
it?"

But Pete continued with his explanations.  If he was laughed at for his
tastes in women, he felt obliged to say that they were only temporary
or indifferent ones.

The morning after Maggie had departed from home, Pete stood behind the
bar.  He was immaculate in white jacket and apron and his hair was
plastered over his brow with infinite correctness.  No customers were
in the place.  Pete was twisting his napkined fist slowly in a beer
glass, softly whistling to himself and occasionally holding the object
of his attention between his eyes and a few weak beams of sunlight that
had found their way over the thick screens and into the shaded room.

With lingering thoughts of the woman of brilliance and audacity, the
bartender raised his head and stared through the varying cracks between
the swaying bamboo doors.  Suddenly the whistling pucker faded from his
lips.  He saw Maggie walking slowly past.  He gave a great start,
fearing for the previously-mentioned eminent respectability of the
place.

He threw a swift, nervous glance about him, all at once feeling guilty.
No one was in the room.

He went hastily over to the side door.  Opening it and looking out, he
perceived Maggie standing, as if undecided, on the corner.  She was
searching the place with her eyes.

As she turned her face toward him Pete beckoned to her hurriedly,
intent upon returning with speed to a position behind the bar and to
the atmosphere of respectability upon which the proprietor insisted.

Maggie came to him, the anxious look disappearing from her face and a
smile wreathing her lips.

"Oh, Pete--," she began brightly.

The bartender made a violent gesture of impatience.

"Oh, my Gawd," cried he, vehemently.  "What deh hell do yeh wanna hang
aroun' here fer?  Do yeh wanna git me inteh trouble?" he demanded with
an air of injury.

Astonishment swept over the girl's features.  "Why, Pete! yehs tol'
me--"

Pete glanced profound irritation.  His countenance reddened with the
anger of a man whose respectability is being threatened.

"Say, yehs makes me tired.  See?  What deh hell deh yeh wanna tag
aroun' atter me fer?  Yeh'll git me inteh trouble wid deh ol' man an'
dey'll be hell teh pay!  If he sees a woman roun' here he'll go crazy
an' I'll lose me job!  See?  Yer brudder come in here an' raised hell
an' deh ol' man hada put up fer it!  An' now I'm done!  See?  I'm done."

The girl's eyes stared into his face.  "Pete, don't yeh remem--"

"Oh, hell," interrupted Pete, anticipating.

The girl seemed to have a struggle with herself.  She was apparently
bewildered and could not find speech.  Finally she asked in a low
voice: "But where kin I go?"

The question exasperated Pete beyond the powers of endurance.  It was a
direct attempt to give him some responsibility in a matter that did not
concern him.  In his indignation he volunteered information.

"Oh, go teh hell," cried he.  He slammed the door furiously and
returned, with an air of relief, to his respectability.

Maggie went away.

She wandered aimlessly for several blocks.  She stopped once and asked
aloud a question of herself: "Who?"

A man who was passing near her shoulder, humorously took the
questioning word as intended for him.

"Eh?  What?  Who?  Nobody!  I didn't say anything," he laughingly said,
and continued his way.

Soon the girl discovered that if she walked with such apparent
aimlessness, some men looked at her with calculating eyes.  She
quickened her step, frightened.  As a protection, she adopted a
demeanor of intentness as if going somewhere.

After a time she left rattling avenues and passed between rows of
houses with sternness and stolidity stamped upon their features.  She
hung her head for she felt their eyes grimly upon her.

Suddenly she came upon a stout gentleman in a silk hat and a chaste
black coat, whose decorous row of buttons reached from his chin to his
knees.  The girl had heard of the Grace of God and she decided to
approach this man.

His beaming, chubby face was a picture of benevolence and
kind-heartedness.  His eyes shone good-will.

But as the girl timidly accosted him, he gave a convulsive movement and
saved his respectability by a vigorous side-step.  He did not risk it
to save a soul.  For how was he to know that there was a soul before
him that needed saving?



Upon a wet evening, several months after the last chapter, two
interminable rows of cars, pulled by slipping horses, jangled along a
prominent side-street.  A dozen cabs, with coat-enshrouded drivers,
clattered to and fro.  Electric lights, whirring softly, shed a blurred
radiance.  A flower dealer, his feet tapping impatiently, his nose and
his wares glistening with rain-drops, stood behind an array of roses
and chrysanthemums.  Two or three theatres emptied a crowd upon the
storm-swept pavements.  Men pulled their hats over their eyebrows and
raised their collars to their ears.  Women shrugged impatient shoulders
in their warm cloaks and stopped to arrange their skirts for a walk
through the storm.  People having been comparatively silent for two
hours burst into a roar of conversation, their hearts still kindling
from the glowings of the stage.

The pavements became tossing seas of umbrellas.  Men stepped forth to
hail cabs or cars, raising their fingers in varied forms of polite
request or imperative demand.  An endless procession wended toward
elevated stations.  An atmosphere of pleasure and prosperity seemed to
hang over the throng, born, perhaps, of good clothes and of having just
emerged from a place of forgetfulness.

In the mingled light and gloom of an adjacent park, a handful of wet
wanderers, in attitudes of chronic dejection, was scattered among the
benches.

A girl of the painted cohorts of the city went along the street.  She
threw changing glances at men who passed her, giving smiling
invitations to men of rural or untaught pattern and usually seeming
sedately unconscious of the men with a metropolitan seal upon their
faces.

Crossing glittering avenues, she went into the throng emerging from the
places of forgetfulness.  She hurried forward through the crowd as if
intent upon reaching a distant home, bending forward in her handsome
cloak, daintily lifting her skirts and picking for her well-shod feet
the dryer spots upon the pavements.

The restless doors of saloons, clashing to and fro, disclosed animated
rows of men before bars and hurrying barkeepers.

A concert hall gave to the street faint sounds of swift, machine-like
music, as if a group of phantom musicians were hastening.

A tall young man, smoking a cigarette with a sublime air, strolled near
the girl.  He had on evening dress, a moustache, a chrysanthemum, and a
look of ennui, all of which he kept carefully under his eye.  Seeing
the girl walk on as if such a young man as he was not in existence, he
looked back transfixed with interest.  He stared glassily for a moment,
but gave a slight convulsive start when he discerned that she was
neither new, Parisian, nor theatrical.  He wheeled about hastily and
turned his stare into the air, like a sailor with a search-light.

A stout gentleman, with pompous and philanthropic whiskers, went
stolidly by, the broad of his back sneering at the girl.

A belated man in business clothes, and in haste to catch a car, bounced
against her shoulder.  "Hi, there, Mary, I beg your pardon!  Brace up,
old girl."  He grasped her arm to steady her, and then was away running
down the middle of the street.

The girl walked on out of the realm of restaurants and saloons.  She
passed more glittering avenues and went into darker blocks than those
where the crowd travelled.

A young man in light overcoat and derby hat received a glance shot
keenly from the eyes of the girl.  He stopped and looked at her,
thrusting his hands in his pockets and making a mocking smile curl his
lips.  "Come, now, old lady," he said, "you don't mean to tel me that
you sized me up for a farmer?"

A labouring man marched along; with bundles under his arms. To her
remarks, he replied, "It's a fine evenin', ain't it?"

She smiled squarely into the face of a boy who was hurrying by with his
hands buried in his overcoat pockets, his blonde locks bobbing on his
youthful temples, and a cheery smile of unconcern upon his lips. He
turned his head and smiled back at her, waving his hands.

"Not this eve--some other eve!"

A drunken man, reeling in her pathway, began to roar at her. "I ain' ga
no money!" he shouted, in a dismal voice. He lurched on up the street,
wailing to himself: "I ain' ga no money. Ba' luck. Ain' ga no more
money."

The girl went into gloomy districts near the river, where the tall
black factories shut in the street and only occasional broad beams of
light fell across the pavements from saloons. In front of one of these
places, whence came the sound of a violin vigorously scraped, the
patter of feet on boards and the ring of loud laughter, there stood a
man with blotched features.

Further on in the darkness she met a ragged being with shifting,
bloodshot eyes and grimy hands.

She went into the blackness of the final block. The shutters of the
tall buildings were closed like grim lips. The structures seemed to
have eyes that looked over them, beyond them, at other things. Afar off
the lights of the avenues glittered as if from an impossible distance.
Street-car bells jingled with a sound of merriment.

At the feet of the tall buildings appeared the deathly black hue of the
river. Some hidden factory sent up a yellow glare, that lit for a
moment the waters lapping oilily against timbers. The varied sounds of
life, made joyous by distance and seeming unapproachableness, came
faintly and died away to a silence.



In a partitioned-off section of a saloon sat a man with a half dozen
women, gleefully laughing, hovering about him.  The man had arrived at
that stage of drunkenness where affection is felt for the universe.

"I'm good f'ler, girls," he said, convincingly.  "I'm damn good f'ler.
An'body treats me right, I allus trea's zem right!  See?"

The women nodded their heads approvingly.  "To be sure," they cried out
in hearty chorus.  "You're the kind of a man we like, Pete.  You're
outa sight!  What yeh goin' to buy this time, dear?"

"An't'ing yehs wants, damn it," said the man in an abandonment of good
will.  His countenance shone with the true spirit of benevolence.  He
was in the proper mode of missionaries.  He would have fraternized with
obscure Hottentots.  And above all, he was overwhelmed in tenderness
for his friends, who were all illustrious.

"An't'ing yehs wants, damn it," repeated he, waving his hands with
beneficent recklessness.  "I'm good f'ler, girls, an' if an'body treats
me right I--here," called he through an open door to a waiter, "bring
girls drinks, damn it.  What 'ill yehs have, girls?  An't'ing yehs
wants, damn it!"

The waiter glanced in with the disgusted look of the man who serves
intoxicants for the man who takes too much of them.  He nodded his head
shortly at the order from each individual, and went.

"Damn it," said the man, "we're havin' heluva time.  I like you girls!
Damn'd if I don't!  Yer right sort!  See?"

He spoke at length and with feeling, concerning the excellencies of his
assembled friends.

"Don' try pull man's leg, but have a heluva time!  Das right!  Das way
teh do!  Now, if I sawght yehs tryin' work me fer drinks, wouldn' buy
damn t'ing!  But yer right sort, damn it!  Yehs know how ter treat a
f'ler, an' I stays by yehs 'til spen' las' cent!  Das right!  I'm good
f'ler an' I knows when an'body treats me right!"

Between the times of the arrival and departure of the waiter, the man
discoursed to the women on the tender regard he felt for all living
things.  He laid stress upon the purity of his motives in all dealings
with men in the world and spoke of the fervor of his friendship for
those who were amiable.  Tears welled slowly from his eyes.  His voice
quavered when he spoke to them.

Once when the waiter was about to depart with an empty tray, the man
drew a coin from his pocket and held it forth.

"Here," said he, quite magnificently, "here's quar'."

The waiter kept his hands on his tray.

"I don' want yer money," he said.

The other put forth the coin with tearful insistence.

"Here, damn it," cried he, "tak't!  Yer damn goo' f'ler an' I wan' yehs
tak't!"

"Come, come, now," said the waiter, with the sullen air of a man who is
forced into giving advice.  "Put yer mon in yer pocket!  Yer loaded an'
yehs on'y makes a damn fool of yerself."

As the latter passed out of the door the man turned pathetically to the
women.

"He don' know I'm damn goo' f'ler," cried he, dismally.

"Never you mind, Pete, dear," said a woman of brilliance and audacity,
laying her hand with great affection upon his arm.  "Never you mind,
old boy!  We'll stay by you, dear!"

"Das ri'," cried the man, his face lighting up at the soothing tones of
the woman's voice.  "Das ri', I'm damn goo' f'ler an' w'en anyone
trea's me ri', I treats zem ri'!  Shee!"

"Sure!" cried the women.  "And we're not goin' back on you, old man."

The man turned appealing eyes to the woman of brilliance and audacity.
He felt that if he could be convicted of a contemptible action he would
die.

"Shay, Nell, damn it, I allus trea's yehs shquare, didn' I?  I allus
been goo' f'ler wi' yehs, ain't I, Nell?"

"Sure you have, Pete," assented the woman.  She delivered an oration to
her companions.  "Yessir, that's a fact.  Pete's a square fellah, he
is.  He never goes back on a friend.  He's the right kind an' we stay
by him, don't we, girls?"

"Sure," they exclaimed.  Looking lovingly at him they raised their
glasses and drank his health.

"Girlsh," said the man, beseechingly, "I allus trea's yehs ri', didn'
I?  I'm goo' f'ler, ain' I, girlsh?"

"Sure," again they chorused.

"Well," said he finally, "le's have nozzer drink, zen."

"That's right," hailed a woman, "that's right.  Yer no bloomin' jay!
Yer spends yer money like a man.  Dat's right."

The man pounded the table with his quivering fists.

"Yessir," he cried, with deep earnestness, as if someone disputed him.
"I'm damn goo' f'ler, an' w'en anyone trea's me ri', I allus
trea's--le's have nozzer drink."

He began to beat the wood with his glass.

"Shay," howled he, growing suddenly impatient.  As the waiter did not
then come, the man swelled with wrath.

"Shay," howled he again.

The waiter appeared at the door.

"Bringsh drinksh," said the man.

The waiter disappeared with the orders.

"Zat f'ler damn fool," cried the man.  "He insul' me!  I'm ge'man!
Can' stan' be insul'!  I'm goin' lickim when comes!"

"No, no," cried the women, crowding about and trying to subdue him.
"He's all right!  He didn't mean anything!  Let it go!  He's a good
fellah!"

"Din' he insul' me?" asked the man earnestly.

"No," said they.  "Of course he didn't!  He's all right!"

"Sure he didn' insul' me?" demanded the man, with deep anxiety in his
voice.

"No, no!  We know him!  He's a good fellah.  He didn't mean anything."

"Well, zen," said the man, resolutely, "I'm go' 'pol'gize!"

When the waiter came, the man struggled to the middle of the floor.

"Girlsh shed you insul' me!  I shay damn lie!  I 'pol'gize!"

"All right," said the waiter.

The man sat down.  He felt a sleepy but strong desire to straighten
things out and have a perfect understanding with everybody.

"Nell, I allus trea's yeh shquare, din' I?  Yeh likes me, don' yehs,
Nell?  I'm goo' f'ler?"

"Sure," said the woman of brilliance and audacity.

"Yeh knows I'm stuck on yehs, don' yehs, Nell?"

"Sure," she repeated, carelessly.

Overwhelmed by a spasm of drunken adoration, he drew two or three bills
from his pocket, and, with the trembling fingers of an offering priest,
laid them on the table before the woman.

"Yehs knows, damn it, yehs kin have all got, 'cause I'm stuck on yehs,
Nell, damn't, I--I'm stuck on yehs, Nell--buy drinksh--damn't--we're
havin' heluva time--w'en anyone trea's me ri'--I--damn't, Nell--we're
havin' heluva--time."

Shortly he went to sleep with his swollen face fallen forward on his
chest.

The women drank and laughed, not heeding the slumbering man in the
corner.  Finally he lurched forward and fell groaning to the floor.

The women screamed in disgust and drew back their skirts.

"Come ahn," cried one, starting up angrily, "let's get out of here."

The woman of brilliance and audacity stayed behind, taking up the bills
and stuffing them into a deep, irregularly-shaped pocket.  A guttural
snore from the recumbent man caused her to turn and look down at him.

She laughed.  "What a damn fool," she said, and went.

The smoke from the lamps settled heavily down in the little
compartment, obscuring the way out.  The smell of oil, stifling in its
intensity, pervaded the air.  The wine from an overturned glass dripped
softly down upon the blotches on the man's neck.



In a room a woman sat at a table eating like a fat monk in a picture.

A soiled, unshaven man pushed open the door and entered.

"Well," said he, "Mag's dead."

"What?" said the woman, her mouth filled with bread.

"Mag's dead," repeated the man.

"Deh hell she is," said the woman.  She continued her meal.  When she
finished her coffee she began to weep.

"I kin remember when her two feet was no bigger dan yer t'umb, and she
weared worsted boots," moaned she.

"Well, whata dat?" said the man.

"I kin remember when she weared worsted boots," she cried.

The neighbors began to gather in the hall, staring in at the weeping
woman as if watching the contortions of a dying dog.  A dozen women
entered and lamented with her.  Under their busy hands the rooms took
on that appalling appearance of neatness and order with which death is
greeted.

Suddenly the door opened and a woman in a black gown rushed in with
outstretched arms.  "Ah, poor Mary," she cried, and tenderly embraced
the moaning one.

"Ah, what ter'ble affliction is dis," continued she.  Her vocabulary
was derived from mission churches.  "Me poor Mary, how I feel fer yehs!
Ah, what a ter'ble affliction is a disobed'ent chil'."

Her good, motherly face was wet with tears.  She trembled in eagerness
to express her sympathy.  The mourner sat with bowed head, rocking her
body heavily to and fro, and crying out in a high, strained voice that
sounded like a dirge on some forlorn pipe.

"I kin remember when she weared worsted boots an' her two feets was no
bigger dan yer t'umb an' she weared worsted boots, Miss Smith," she
cried, raising her streaming eyes.

"Ah, me poor Mary," sobbed the woman in black.  With low, coddling
cries, she sank on her knees by the mourner's chair, and put her arms
about her.  The other women began to groan in different keys.

"Yer poor misguided chil' is gone now, Mary, an' let us hope it's fer
deh bes'.  Yeh'll fergive her now, Mary, won't yehs, dear, all her
disobed'ence?  All her t'ankless behavior to her mudder an' all her
badness?  She's gone where her ter'ble sins will be judged."

The woman in black raised her face and paused.  The inevitable sunlight
came streaming in at the windows and shed a ghastly cheerfulness upon
the faded hues of the room.  Two or three of the spectators were
sniffling, and one was loudly weeping.  The mourner arose and staggered
into the other room.  In a moment she emerged with a pair of faded baby
shoes held in the hollow of her hand.

"I kin remember when she used to wear dem," cried she.  The women burst
anew into cries as if they had all been stabbed.  The mourner turned to
the soiled and unshaven man.

"Jimmie, boy, go git yer sister!  Go git yer sister an' we'll put deh
boots on her feets!"

"Dey won't fit her now, yeh damn fool," said the man.

"Go git yer sister, Jimmie," shrieked the woman, confronting him
fiercely.

The man swore sullenly.  He went over to a corner and slowly began to
put on his coat.  He took his hat and went out, with a dragging,
reluctant step.

The woman in black came forward and again besought the mourner.

"Yeh'll fergive her, Mary!  Yeh'll fergive yer bad, bad, chil'!  Her
life was a curse an' her days were black an' yeh'll fergive yer bad
girl?  She's gone where her sins will be judged."

"She's gone where her sins will be judged," cried the other women, like
a choir at a funeral.

"Deh Lord gives and deh Lord takes away," said the woman in black,
raising her eyes to the sunbeams.

"Deh Lord gives and deh Lord takes away," responded the others.

"Yeh'll fergive her, Mary!" pleaded the woman in black.  The mourner
essayed to speak but her voice gave way.  She shook her great shoulders
frantically, in an agony of grief.  Hot tears seemed to scald her
quivering face.  Finally her voice came and arose like a scream of pain.

"Oh, yes, I'll fergive her!  I'll fergive her!"

 We see a scene with a "forlorn woman" walking alone at night, searching for someone in saloon doorways. For a moment we imagine it might be Maggie, but then we discover it is Hattie, a woman who has been seduced and abandoned not by Pete but by Jimmie. She finds Jimmie, and he once again rebuffs her. But when Jimmie goes home, the reader is reminded that an identical situation afflicts Jimmie's own sister, who has returned to face her mother's wrath. Mary is impossibly cruel, holding her silent daughter up to ridicule in front of the assembled neighbors, who treat Maggie like a leper. Jimmie, too, rejects his sister. Cast aside, Maggie leaves; her only shred of comfort comes from the old woman, who offers her shelter. Quickly, the scene cuts to the next day, in Pete's barroom, where Pete is washing his hands of the entire affair, for which he does not consider himself responsible. Maggie comes to see him at the bar, and Pete angrily sends her away. In response to her question "where kin I go?", he snarls "Oh, go teh hell." Walking away aimlessly, Maggie comes upon a man whose "face was a picture of benevolence," but even he, the personification of the "Grace of God," shudders and turns away from her. Several months later, on a wet evening, "a girl of the painted cohorts of the city"--a prostitute, and possibly Maggie--is walking the streets of New York. She passes scorned, unnoticed, or leered at, through the busy streets, and eventually finds herself in the blackness near the river. There, a disgusting fat man detaches himself from the shadows and follows the girl; the sounds of the city fade away into silence, and her fate is anyone's guess. The novel's penultimate chapter finds Pete in a saloon with a half-dozen giggling women; one of them is Nellie. Pete is badly drunk, and spends the evening buying drinks for the party and slurring nonsense about his own goodness, in an attempt, it is implied, to fend off pangs of conscience. Before collapsing, Pete gives Nellie money, and declares pathetically that he is "stuck on" her. When he loses consciousness, she leaves him, saying, "What a damn fool." In the final scene, Jimmie returns to the tenement with the news that Maggie is dead. His mother chooses this occasion, when it is far too late, to express motherly love and sympathy for her daughter. She works herself into a frenzy of mourning, whipped onwards by Miss Smith. The last words of the novel have Mary, the novel's "sated villain," ironically forgiving her daughter for her imagined sins: "I'll fergive her! I'll fergive her!"

