the wars. Prior: he ain't no 'count. Drunk and fell under a elevated
train. He ain't saved nothing neither. He drinks _his_. Echmeyer: he's
some Jew; worth every cent of fifty thousand dollars. They calls him
congen_eye_tul, 'cause he was born with his legs lef off him. Fun
Barnheim: he's German, went asleep in the shade of a steam-roller, and
never woke up till his legs was rolled out flat as a pair of pants
that's just bin ironed. Then o' course there's Blizzard."

Barbara was smiling. "What became of his _legs_, Bubbles?"

"God knows," returned the boy. "Blizzard don't boast about it like the
others. But he ain't no common beggar. He's a man."

"A good man?"

"Good? He ain't got a kinder thought in his block than settin' fire to
houses and killin' people. But when he says 'step,' _it_ steps."

"It?"

"The East Side, Miss Barbara. He's the whole show."

"What does he look like?"

The boy at first thought in vain for a simile, and then, having found
one to his liking, emitted with great earnestness that the beggar,
Blizzard, looked exactly like "the wrath of God." Whatever the boy's
simile may convey to the reader, to Barbara, fresh from seeing the man
himself, it had a wonderful aptness.