I wanted to or not; or maybe ye think I'd oughter chuck some o' me own
boys into the road because they don't belong to yer branch, as ye call
it, and git a lot o' dead beats to work in their places who don't know
a horse from a coal-bucket. An' ye'll help me, will ye? Come out here on
the front porch, Mr. Crimmins"--opening the door with a jerk. "Do ye see
that stable over there! Well, it covers seven horses; an' the shed has
six carts with all the harness. Back of it--perhaps if ye stand on yer
toes even a little feller like you can see the top of another shed. That
one has me derricks an' tools."

Crimmins tried to interrupt long enough to free McGaw's red pepper, but
her words poured out in a torrent.

"Now ye can go back an' tell Dan McGaw an' the balance of yer two-dollar
loafers that there ain't a dollar owin' on any horse in my stable, an'
that I've earned everything I've got without a man round to help 'cept
those I pays wages to. An' ye can tell 'em, too, that I'll hire who I
please, an' pay 'em what they oughter git; an' I'll do me own haulin'
an' unloadin' fer nothin' if it suits me. When ye said ye were a walkin'
delegate ye spoke God's truth. Ye'd be a ridin' delegate if ye could;
but there's one thing ye'll niver be, an' that's a workin' delegate,
as long as ye kin find fools to pay ye wages fer bummin' round day 'n'
night. If I had me way, ye would walk, but it would be on yer uppers,
wid yer bare feet to the road."

Crimmins again attempted to speak, but she raised her arm threateningly:
"Now, if it's walkin' ye are, ye can begin right away. Let me see ye
earn yer wages down that garden an' into the road. Come, lively now,
before I disgrace meself a-layin' hands on the likes of ye!"

V. A WORD FROM THE TENEMENTS

One morning Patsy came up the garden path limping on his crutch; the
little fellow's eyes were full of tears. He had been out with his goat
when some children from the tenements surrounded his cart, pitched it
into the ditch, and followed him half way home, calling "Scab! scab!" at
the top of their voices. Cully heard his cries, and ran through the yard
to meet him, his anger rising at every step. To lay hands on Patsy was,
to Cully, the unpardonable sin. Ever since the day, five years
before, when Tom had taken him into her employ, a homeless waif of
the streets,--his father had been drowned from a canal-boat she was
unloading,--and had set him down beside Patsy's crib to watch while