]

Many years after my escape from Wheeler Street I returned to see if
the place was as bad as I remembered it. I found the narrow street
grown even narrower, the sidewalk not broad enough for two to walk
abreast, the gutter choked with dust and refuse, the dingy row of
tenements on either side unspeakably gloomy. I discovered, what I had
not realized before, that Wheeler Street was a crooked lane connecting
a corner saloon on Shawmut Avenue with a block of houses of ill repute
on Corning Street. It had been the same in my day, but I had not
understood much, and I lived unharmed.

On this later visit I walked slowly up one side of the street, and
down the other, remembering many things. It was eleven o'clock in the
evening, and sounds of squabbling coming through doors and windows
informed my experienced ear that a part of Wheeler Street was going to
bed. The grocery store in the basement of Number 11--my father's old
store--was still open for business; and in the gutter in front of the
store, to be sure, was a happy baby, just as there used to be.

I was not alone on this tour of inspection. I was attended by a trusty
escort. But I brought soap and water with me. I am applying them now.

I found no fault with Wheeler Street when I was fourteen years old. On
the contrary, I pronounced it good. We had never lived so near the car
tracks before, and I delighted in the moonlike splendor of the arc
lamp just in front of the saloon. The space illumined by this lamp and
enlivened by the passage of many thirsty souls was the favorite
playground for Wheeler Street youth. On our street there was not room
to turn around; here the sidewalk spread out wider as it swung around
to Shawmut Avenue.

I played with the boys by preference, as in Chelsea. I learned to cut
across the tracks in front of an oncoming car, and it was great fun to
see the motorman's angry face turn scared, when he thought I was going
to be shaved this time sure. It was amusing, too, to watch the side
door of the saloon, which opened right opposite the grocery store, and
see a drunken man put out by the bartender. The fellow would whine so
comically, and cling to the doorpost so like a damp leaf to a twig,
and blubber so like a red-faced baby, that it was really funny to see
him.

And there was Morgan Chapel. It was worth coming to Wheeler Street
just for that. All the children of the neighborhood, except the most
rowdyish, flocked to Morgan Chapel at least