toried
front was the rear entrance to the Fourth Regiment Armory. And there, at
that moment, a sad-eyed, swarthy Italian,--swinging his hand-organ down
on the asphalt pavement in front of the Armory's open doors, was
beginning to grind out his melodies. And with the first note, children
came running, from doorstep and curb, from sidewalk and gutter, while,
at the same moment, in the open door of the Armory appeared a small,
chubby-cheeked boy, who had upon his head a soldier cap so much too
large for him as to cover the tips of his ears entirely, and who,
moreover, wore, buckled about his waist, a belt gay as to trimmings and
glittering with silver finishings. If the Fourth Regiment boasted a
Company of Lilliputian Guards here surely was a member.

The Angel, in the Tenement door, was enchanted. How different a world
from that upstairs room under the roof! She kept step to the music and
nodded her head to the fascinating little boy in the Armory door. And
the sharp eyes of that young gentleman had no sooner espied the nodding
little creature in the doorway opposite, than heels together, head
erect, up went a quick hand to the military cap. The Angel was being
saluted, and while her ignorance of the fact prevented her appreciating
that honor, the friendliness of the little boy was alluring. Down the
steps she came, her little feet tripping to the measure of the music,
her skirts outheld, and flitting across the pavement and over the curb,
she made for the group of children in the street. Cobblestones, however,
being strange to the baby feet, up those dancing members tripped and
down the Angel fell, just as a wagon came dashing around the corner of
the streets.

Out rushed the small boy from the Armory door, and, scattering the crowd
around the organ, caught the fallen Angel by the arm, and raised his
hand with an air of authority, as, with a grin, the driver on the wagon
drew up his horse and surveyed the group, and the sad-eyed Italian,
recognizing the superior attraction, shouldered his organ and moved on.

"Hello," cried the man on the wagon seeing the child was not hurt, "yer
can soak me one if it ain't little Joe! Where'd yer git dem togs, kid?
What'r' yer goin' in fer anyhow, baby perlice?"

The region in the neighborhood of Joey's waist swelled with pride, and
his chubby face bore a look of wounded dignity. "There ain't no perlice
about this yere, Bill, it's a sojer I be, see?"

Being pressed by Bill to expla