swollen lip, a scratched cheek, knuckles still bleeding, and a shirt
torn open from throat to waist.

"What does this mean, sir?" Mr. Bronson finally managed to articulate.

Joe stood speechless. How could he tell, in one brief sentence, all
the whole night's happenings?--for all that must be included in the
explanation of what his luckless disarray meant.

"Have you lost your tongue?" Mr. Bronson demanded with an appearance
of impatience.

"I 've--I 've--"

"Yes, yes," his father encouraged.

"I 've--well, I 've been down in the Pit," Joe succeeded in blurting out.

"I must confess that you look like it--very much like it indeed."
Mr. Bronson spoke severely, but if ever by great effort he conquered
a smile, that was the time. "I presume," he went on, "that you do not
refer to the abiding-place of sinners, but rather to some definite
locality in San Francisco. Am I right?"

Joe swept his arm in a descending gesture toward Union Street, and said:
"Down there, sir."

"And who gave it that name?"

"I did," Joe answered, as though confessing to a specified crime.