unwholesomeness of this girl repelled him, though he was hardly aware
that this was so. Buzz and his gang would meet down town of a Saturday
night, very moist as to hair and clean as to soft shirt. They would
lounge on the corner of Grand and Outagamie, in front of Schroeder's
brightly lighted drug store, watching the girls go by. They were, for
the most part, a pimply-faced lot. They would shuffle their feet in a
slow jig, hands in pockets. When a late comer joined them it was
considered _au fait_ to welcome him by assuming a fistic attitude, after
the style of the pugilists pictured in the barber-shop magazines, and
spar a good-natured and make-believe round with him, with much agile
dancing about in a circle, head held stiffly, body crouching, while
working a rapid and facetious right.

This corner, or Donovan's pool-shack, was their club, their forum. Here
they recounted their exploits, bragged of their triumphs, boasted of
their girls, flexed their muscles to show their strength. And all
through their talk there occurred again and again a certain term whose
use is common to their kind. Their remarks were prefaced and interlarded
and concluded with it, so that it was no longer an oath or a blasphemy.

"Je's, I was sore at 'm. I told him where to get off at. Nobody can talk
to me like that. Je's, I should say not."

So accustomed had it grown that it was not even thought of as
profanity.

If Buzz's family could have heard him in his talk with his street-corner
companions they would not have credited their ears. A mouthy braggart in
company is often silent in his own home, and Buzz was no exception to
this rule. Fortunately, Buzz's braggadocio carried with it a certain