Say!” remarked Chucky as he squared himself before the greasy doggery table, “I'm goin' to make it whiskey to-day, 'cause I ain't feelin' a t'ing but good, see!”

I asked the cause of Chucky's exaltation. Chucky's reason as given for his high spirits was unusual.

“Red Mike gets ten spaces in Sing Sing,” he said; “an' he does a dead short stretch at that. He oughter get d' chair—that bloke had.

“Red Mike croaks his kid,” vouchsafed Chucky in further elucidation. “Say! it makes me tired to t'ink! She was as good a kid, this little Emmer which Mike does up, as ever comes down d' Bend. An' only 'leven!”

“Tell me the story,” I urged.

“This Red Mike's a hod carrier,” continued Chucky, thus moved, “but ain't out to hoit himself be hard woik at it; he don't woik overtime. Hit! Not on your life insurance!

“What Red Mike sooner do is bum Mulberry Street for drinks, an' hang 'round s'loons an' sling guff about d' wrongs of d' woikin'man. Then he'd chase home, an' bein' loaded, he'd wallop his family.

“On d' level! I ain't got no use ford' sort of a phylanthrofist who goes chinnin' all night about d' wrongs of d' labour element an 'd' oppressions of d* rich an' then goes home an' slugs his wife. Say! I t'ink a bloke who'd soak a skirt, no matter what she does—no matter if she is his wife! on d' square! I t'ink he's rotten.” And Chucky imbibed deeply, looking virtuous.

“Well, at last,” said Chucky, resuming his narrative, “Mike puts a crimp too many in his Norah—that's his wife—an' d' city 'torities plants her in Potters' Field.”

“Did Mike kill her?” I queried, a bit horrified at this murderous development of Chucky's tale.

“Sure!” assented Chucky, “Mike kills her.”

“Shoot her?” I suggested.

“Nit!” retorted Chucky disgustedly. “Shoot her! Mike ain't got no gun. If he had, he'd hocked it long before he got to croak anybody wit' it. Naw, Mike does Norah be his constant abuse, see! Beats d' life out of her be degrees.

“When Norah's gone,” resumed Chucky, “Emmer, who's d' oldest of d' t'ree kids, does d' mudder act for d' others. She's 'leven, like I says. An' little!—she ain't bigger'n a drink of whiskey, Emmer ain't.

“But youse should oughter see her hustle to line up an' take care of them two young-ones. Only eight an' five dey be. Emmer washes d' duds for 'em, and does all sorts of stunts to get grub, an' tries like an old woman, night an' day, to bring 'em up.

“D' neighbours helps, of course, like neighbours do when it's a case of dead hard luck; an' I meself has t'run a quarter or two in Emmer's lap when I'm a bit lushy. Say! I'm d' easiest mark when I've been hit-tin' d' bottle!—I'd give d' nose off me face!

“If d' neighbours don't chip in, Emmer an' them kids would lots of times have had a hard graft; for mostly there ain't enough dough about d' joint from one week's end to another to flag a bread waggon.

“Finally Red Mike gets woise. After Norah goes flutterin' that time, Mike's been goin' along as usual, talkin' about d' woikin'man, an' doin' up Emmer an 'd' kids for a finish before he rolls in to pound his ear.

“At foist it ain't so bad. He simply fetches one of d' young ones a back-handed swipe across d' map wit' his mit to see it swap ends wit' itself; or mebbe he soaks Emmer in d' lamp an' blacks it, 'cause she's older. But never no woise. At least, not for long.

“But as I says, finally Red Mike gets bad for fair. He lams loose oftener, an' he licks Emmer an 'd' kids more to d' Queen's taste—more like dey's grown-up folks an' can stan' for it.

“Emmer, day after day chases 'round quiet as a rabbit, washin' d' kids an' feedin' 'em when there's any-t'ing, an' she don't make no holler about Mike's jumpin' on 'em for fear if she squeals d' cops'll pinch Mike an' give him d' Island.

“Yes, Emmer was a dead game all right. Not only she don't raise d' roar on Mike about his soakin' 'em, but more'n onct she cuts in an' takes d' smash Mike means for one of d' others.

“But, of course, you can see poor Emmer's finish. She's little, an' weak, an' t'in, not gettin' enough to chew—for she saws d' food off on d' others as long as dey makes d' hungry front—an 'd' night Mike puts d' boots to her an' breaks t'ree of her slats, that lets her out! She croaks in four hours, be d' watch.

“W'at does Red Mike do it for? Well, he never needs, much of a hunch to pitch into Emmer an' d' rest. But I hears from me Rag who lives on d' same floor that it's all 'cause Mike gets d' tip that Emmer's got two bits, an' he wants it for booze. Mike comes in wit' a t'irst an' he ain't got d' price, an' he puts it to Emmer she's got stuff. Mike wants her to spring her plant an' chase d' duck.

“But Emmer welched an' won't have it. She's dead stubborn an' says d' kids must eat d' nex' day; and so Mike can't have d' money. Mike says he'll kick d' heart out of her if he don't get it. Emmer stan's pat, an' so Mike starts in.

“It's 'most an hour before I gets there. D' poor baby—for that's all Emmer is, even if she was dealin' d' game for d' joint—looks awful, all battered to bits. One of d' city's jackleg sawbones is there, mendin' Emmer wit' bandages. But he says himself he's on a dead card, an' that Emmer's going to die. Mike is settin' on a stool keepin' mum an' lookin' w'ite an' dopey, an' a cop is wit' him. Oh, yes! he gets d' collar long before I shows up.

“Say! d' scene ain't solemn, oh, no! nit! Emmer lays back on d' bed—she twigs she's goin' to die; d' doctor puts her on. Emmer lays back an' as good as she can, for her valves don't woik easy an' she breathes hard, she tells 'em what to do. She says there's d' washboiler she borry's from d' Meyers's family, an' to send it back.

“'An' I owes Mrs. Lynch,' says Emmer—she's talkin' dead faint—'a dime for sewin' me skirt, an' I ain't got d' dough. But when dey takes dad to d' coop, tell her to run her lamps over d' plunder, an' she has her pick, see! An' when I'm gone,' goes on Emmer, 'ast d' Gerries to take d' kids. Dey tries to get their hooks on 'em before, but I wanted to keep 'em. Now I can't, an' d' Gerries is d' best I can do. D' Gerries ain't so warm, but dey can lose nothin' in a walk. An' wit' dad pinched an' me dead, poor Danny an' Jennie is up ag'inst it for fair.'

“Nit; Emmer never sheds a weep. But say! you should a seen me Rag! She was d' terror for tears! She does d' sob act for two, an' don't you forget it.

“Emmer just lays there when she's quit chinnin' an' gives Mike d' icy eye. If ever a bloke goes unforgiven, it's Red Mike.

“'Don't youse want d' priest, or mebby a preacher?' asts me Rag of Emmer between sobs. Emmer's voice is most played when she comes back at her.

“'W'at's d' use?' says Emmer.

“Then she toins to d' two kids who's be d' bed cryin', an' tries to kiss 'em, but it's a move too many for her. She twists back wit 'd' pain, an' bridges herself like you see a wrestler, an' when she sinks straight wit 'd' bed ag'in, d' red blood is comin' out of her face. Emmer's light is out.

“I tumbles to it d' foist. As I leads me Rag back to our room—for I can see she's out to t'row a fit—d' cop takes Red Mike down be d' stairs.”