WHEN Chucky came into the little doggery where we were wont to converse, there arrived with him an emphatic odour of kerosene. Also Chucky's face was worn and sad, and his hands were muffled with many bandages. To add to it all Chucky was not in spirits.

“What's the trouble?” I asked.

“We've been havin 'd' run in' of our lives,” replied Chucky, as he called to the barkeeper for his usual bracer, “an' our tenement is just standin' on its nut right now, an' that's for straight!”

“Tell me about it,” I urged.

“D' racket this time over to d' joint,” said Chucky, “is about a Swede skirt named Petersen who croaks herself be d' gas play last night. D' place is full of cops an' hobos an' all sorts of blokes, pipin' off d' play, while a corner mug is holdin' an inkwest over d' stiff, see! What you smells is d' coal oil on me mits. I soaks me hooks in it to take d' boin away. Me Rag gives me d' tip; an' say! it's a winner at that. D' boins ain't half so bad as dey was.”

“But I don't understand,” I replied. “How did you come to burn your hands? If the gas was burning, I don't see how the woman could have committed suicide.”

“Youse is gettin' away on d' wrong hoof,” said Chucky. “I don't boin me fins over d' Petersen moll croakin' herself. I cremates 'em puttin' out d' flames when d' Petersen kid takes fire d' day before. This inkwest which d' cor'oner guy is holdin' to-day, is d' secont one. He holds d' foist yesterday over d' kid.

“On d' level! I don't catch on to d' need of inkwests anyhow. If a mark's dead, he's dead. It don't need no sawbones an' a mob of snoozers to be 'panelled for a jury, see! to put youse on. It looks to me like a dead case of shakin' down d' public for d' fees; these inkwests do, Cor'ners, I s'spose, has to have some excuse for livin', so when some poor duck croaks, dey comes chasin' 'round wit' a inkwest to see if he's surely done up, an' to put a bit of dough in their kecks. Well! I figgers it's law all right, all right, an' mebby it's d' proper caper. Anyhow, I passes it up.

“What about this Petersen push? Well, if ever a household strikes it hard, I'm here to say it's d' Petersens. When it comes to d' boss hard luck story, I'll place me bets wit' that outfit every time.

“It's two spaces back when this Petersen gang comes ashore at Ellis Island. There's t'ree of 'em; husband, wife, an' kid, see! Dey comes in as steerage, an' naturally, d' Ellis Island gezebos collars 'em an' t'rows 'em into hock d' moment dey hits d' pier. Nit; dey ain't arrested. But youse is on, how dey puts d' clamps to emigrants. Dey 'detains' 'em, as it's called.

“Every mug who comes steerage has to spring his plant when he lands, an' if he ain't as strong as $30, dey—d' offishuls—don't do a t'ing but chase him back on d' nex' boat. He's a pauper, see! an' he gets d' razzle dazzle an 'd' gran' rinky dink. Back he goes where he hails from, like a bundle of old clothes. Paupers is barred at Ellis Island; dey don't go wit' these United States, not on your overshoes!

“So d' Petersens is stood up, like I tells youse, at Ellis Island to see be dey tramps. It toins out, nit. Dey ain't paupers. Petersen has more'n enough money to get be d' gate, see! Petersen has a hundred an' fifty plunks, an' bein' there's only t'ree, it's plenty to go 'round an' show $30 for each.

“Still them Ellis Island snoozers detains d' Petersens a week just d' same. D' place where dey stays is worse'n any holdover or station house I'm ever in; an', bein' d' weather's winter, an' this 'detention' pen is wet an' cold, Petersen himself cops off d' pneumonia an' out goes his light before ever he leaves Ellis Island at all. Dey plants him in d' graveyard dey has for emigrants, an 'd' wife an' kid comes over to d' city alone.

“That's d' foist I knows of d' Petersens. D' mother an' kid takes a back-room in our tenement; an' after dey gets 'quainted, she tells me Rag about her man dyin'. She ain't so old, this Petersen woman, an' only she's all broke up about her man croakin', she ain't a bad looker, see! wit' blue eyes an' a mop of gold hair. D' kid's name is Hilda, an,' except she's only seven years an' no bigger'n a drink of whiskey, she's a ringer for her mother.

“Well! like I says, d' Petersens—what's left of 'em after d' man quits livin'—organised in d' back room on our floor. An' because folks who wants to chew must woik, d' Petersen woman gets a curve on an' goes to doin' stunts wit' a tub. She chases 'round doin' washin', see!

“It's when d' old goil is away slingin' suds that I gets nex' wit 'd' kid. She's dropped her ragbaby down be a gratin' one day an' her heart is broke. She t'inks it's a cinch case of all over wit' d' poor ragbaby, an' she's cryin' to beat d' band.

“But she gets it ag'in. Me an' a big fat cop who comes waddlin' along, tears up d' gratin' an' fishes out Hilda's doll, an' after that me an' her gets to be dead chummy; what youse might call * pals.'

“Hilda's shy at foist, an' a bit leary of me—I ain't no bute at me best—but she gets used to seein' me about, an' as I stakes her to or'nges onct or twict, at last she gets stuck on me.

“D' Petersens, an' me, an' me Rag is neighbours on d' same floor for near two years. An' days when I comes home early, an' me breat' ain't smellin' of booze—for d' kid welches every time she sniffs d' lush on me, see!—I used to go in an' kiss Hilda same as she's me own. An' between youse an' me,” and here a drop gathered in Chucky's cold eye, “I ain't above tippin' it off on d' quiet, I t'inks a heap of this young-one, an' feels better every time I gets me lamps on her.

“D' finish comes t'ree days ago. D' old goil Petersen is away woikin', an' Hilda, for all it's so cold, is playin' in d' passage-way. There's one of them plumber hold-ups fixin 'd' water pipe where it's sprung a leak, an' he's got one of them dinky little fire pots which plumbers lug 'round wit' em.

“While this plumber stiff is busy wit' his graft, poor little Hilda t'inks she'll warm her dolly's mits be d' blaze. She's holdin' her ragbaby's hooks over d' plumber's fire as I comes up d' stairs; an' as she hears me foot, an' toins smilin' to make sure it's me, her frock catches, an' when she chases screechin' into me arms, she's a bundle of live flame. Say! I'd sooner ten to one it was me, an' that's no bluff!

“I wraps me coat over her, an' gives d' fire d' quick smother, see! An' I boins me dukes until it comes to bein' mighty near a case of stumps wit' Chucky d' balance of his joiney to d' tomb.

“But what th' 'ell! It all don't do no good. D' poor kid has swallered d' fire, an' she's d' deadest ever before even I takes her out of me coat.

“We lays Hilda out, me Rag an' me, on d' Petersens' bed; an' d' cor'ner sucker, as I says at d' be-ginnin', comes sprintin' over an' goes to holdin' his inkwests.

“Bimeby, d' mother gets home from her tubs, an' that's where d' hard play comes in. Me Rag tells her as easy as she can; but youse could see it was a centre shot all d' same. It soaked her where she lived.

“'Foist d' man, an' then d' baby!' says d' Petersen woman, as she sets on d' floor an' mourns; 'now I'll soon go hunt for 'em.'

“Me Rag tries to get her to come in wit' us, but she won't stan' for it. All t'rough d' night we hears her mournin' an' groanin' on d' floor be d' side of little Hilda's coffin.

“D' kid's fun'ral was yesterday, an' a pulpit sharp from one of d' Missions gets in on d' play, an' offishiates. Sure! it's a case of Potter's Field—for d' mother ain't got d' dough to make good for a grave—but me an' me Rag gets a car, an' takes d' mother out to see little Hilda planted. No, she don't cry much at that; but me Rag toins in an' don't do a t'ing but break d' record for tears. If Hilda was her own kid, she couldn't have made more of a row. When it comes to what youse might call 'd' outward evidences of grief,' me Rag simply lose d' Petersen mother.

“D' mother was feelin' it all d' same. She keeps whisperin' to herself: 'Soon I'll go find 'em!' like that; an' that's d' limit of what youse could get out of her.

“It's last night, after little Hilda's put away,—it's mebby, say, t'ree this mornin', when wit'out a woid of warnin' me Rag sets up straight in bed an' gives a sniff.

“'Be d' mother of d' Holy Mary! it's gas!' she says, an' nex' she makes a straight wake for d' Petersen door.

“An' me Rag guesses right d' very foist time, like d' kid in d' song. Gas it was; d' poor Petersen mother toins it on full blast. She's croaked an' cold as a wedge, hours before we tumbles to her game.

“That's d' finish. As I states d' foist dash out of d' box, it's d' dandy hard luck story of d' year. D' whole Petersen push is wiped out, same as that bar-keep would swab off his bar. On d' dead! it's all too many for me! What's d' use of folks bein' born at all, if dey's goin' to get yanked in like that—t'ree at a clatter, an' all young!

“Do dey have re-latiffs? Some in d' old country, I takes it. There's a note d' Petersen woman leaves for me Rag, astin' her to write d' hist'ry of d' last round an' wind-up to d' folks at home, an' givin' d' address. But me ownliest own says 'nit!' an* chucks d' note in d' stove.

“'Dey's better off not knowin',' says me Rag.”