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.