had attacked one of Jim's ankles, and,
despite ointments and lotions prescribed by the wise women of the
tenement, had eaten into the bone and stayed there. At nine the lad was a
cripple with one leg shorter than the other by two or three inches, with a
stepmother, a squalling baby to mind for his daily task, hard words and
kicks for his wage; for Jim was an unprofitable investment, promising no
returns, but, rather, constant worry and outlay. The outlook was not the
most cheering in the world.

But, happily, Jim was little concerned about things to come. He lived in
the day that is, fighting his way as he could with a leg and a half and a
nickname,--"Gimpy" they called him for his limp,--and getting out of it
what a fellow so handicapped could. After all, there were compensations.
When the gang scattered before the cop, it did not occur to him to lay any
of the blame to Gimpy, though the little lad with the pinched face and
sharp eyes had, in fact, done scouting duty most craftily. It was partly
in acknowledgment of such services, partly as a concession to his sharper
wits, that Gimpy was tacitly allowed a seat in the councils of the Cave
Gang, though in the far "kid" corner. He limped through their campaigns
with them, learned to swim by "dropping off the dock" at the end of the
street into the swirling tide, and once nearly lost his life when one of
the bigger boys dared him to run through an election bonfire like his
able-bodied comrades. Gimpy started to do it at once, but stumbled and
fell, and was all but burned to death before the other boys could pull him
out. This act of bravado earned him full membership in the gang, despite
his tender years; and, indeed, it is doubtful if in all that region there
was a lad of his age as tough and loveless as Gimpy. The one affection of
his barren life was the baby that made it slavery by day. But, somehow,
there was that in its chubby foot groping for him in its baby sleep, or in
the little round head pillowed on his shoulder, that more than made up for
it all.

Ill luck was surely Gimpy's portion. It was not a month after he had
returned to the haunts of the gang, a battle-scarred veteran now since
his encounter with the bonfire, when "the Society's" officers held up the
huckster's wagon from which he was crying potatoes with his thin, shrill
voice, which somehow seemed to convey the note of pain that was the
prevailing strain of his life. They made Gimpy a prisoner, limp,