c lady used to argue
with paving stones, carving knives, and bricks. Then she told of the
quarrel; what Mag said; what she said. It seems that they cited each
other as spectacles of sin and corruption in more fully explanatory
terms than are commonly known to be possible. But it was one of Mammy's
most gorgeous recollections, and, as she told it, a smile widened over
her face.

Finally she explained her celebrated retort to one of the most
illustrious thugs that had blessed the city in bygone days. "Ah says to
'im, ah says: 'You--you'll die in yer boots like Gallopin'
Thompson--dat's what you'll do. You des min' dat', honey. Ah got o'ny
one chile, an' he ain't nuthin' but er cripple; but le'me tel' you, man,
dat boy'll live t' pick de feathers f'm de goose dat'll eat de grass dat
grows over your grave, man.' Dat's what I tol' 'm. But--law sake--how I
know dat in less'n three day, dat man be lying in de gutter wif a knife
stickin' out'n his back. Lawd, no, I sholy never s'pected noting like
dat."

These reminiscences, at once maimed and reconstructed, have been
treasured by old Mammy as carefully, as tenderly, as if they were the
various little tokens of an early love. She applies the same
black-handed sentiment to them, and, as she sits groaning by the fire,
it is plainly to be seen that there is only one food for her ancient
brain, and that is the recollection of the beautiful fights and murders
of the past.

On the other side of the lane, but near Mammy's house, Pop Babcock keeps
a restaurant. Pop says it is a restaurant, and so it must be one; but
you could pass there ninety times each day and never know you were
passing a restaurant. There is one obscure little window in the
basement, and if you went close and peered in you might, after a time,
be able to make out a small, dusty sign, lying amid jars on a dusty
shelf. This sign reads: "Oysters in every style." If you are of a
gambling turn of mind, you will probably stand out in the street and bet
yourself black in the face that there isn't an oyster within a hundred
yards. But Pop Babcock made that sign, and Pop Babcock could not tell an
untruth. Pop is a model of all the virtues which an inventive fate has
made for us. He says so.

As far as goes the management of Pop's restaurant, it differs from
Sherry's. In the first place, the door is always kept locked. The
wardmen of the Fifteenth precinct have a way of prowling through the
restaurant almost every nigh