is and Johnnie
with awesome horror, so that they spoke of it as they spoke of the Great
War, or of a murder in the next block.

It had not been possible in those days for Big Tom to overlook the
temptation of drink. To arrive at his own door from any direction he had
to pass saloons. At both of the nearest street crossings northward,
three of the four corners had been occupied by drinking places. There
were two at each of the street crossings to the south. In those now
distant times, the signal, and Mrs. Kukor's prompt answering of it, had
often saved Cis and Johnnie from drunken beatings.

But now the boy sent no signal. Those big-girl's hands were shaking in
spite of all effort to control. His upturned face was a ghastly sallow.
The gray eyes were set.

Barber's survey of the room finished, he stepped across the sagging
telephone line, placed the cargo hook and his lunch pail on the untidy
table, and squared round upon Johnnie.

"Now, say!"

"Yes?" It was a whisper.

"What y' done in here since I left two hours ago?"

Johnnie drew a quick breath. He was not given to falsehood, but he did
at times depend upon evasion--at such times as this. And not
unnaturally. For he was in the absolute power of a bully five times his
own size--a bully who was none the less cruel because he argued that he
was disciplining the boy properly, bringing him up "right." Discipline
or not, Big Tom did not know the meaning of mercy; and to Johnnie the
blow of one of those great gorillalike fists was like some cataclysm of
nature.

"What y' done?" persisted Barber, but speaking low, so as not to
disturb the sleeper in the wheel chair. He leaned down toward Johnnie,
and thrust out that lower lip.

The boy's own lips began to move, stiffly. But he spoke as if he were
out of breath. "Grandpa f-f-fretted," he stammered. "He--he wanted to be
run up and down--with his hat on. And--and so I filled the
m-m-mush-kettle t' soak it, and then we--we----"

His lips went on moving; but his words became inaudible. A smile was
twisting Barber's mouth, and carrying that crooked, cavernous nose
sidewise. Johnnie understood the smile. The fringe about his thin arms
and legs began to tremble. He raised both hands toward the longshoreman,
the palms outward, in a gesture that was like a silent prayer.

With a muttered curse, Barber straightened, turned on his heel, strode
to the door of his bedroom, threw it wide, noted the unmade beds, and
came abou