"Dun'no'. Dat's wot de newsies calls me, 'cause of wot Ise says to de
preacher man."

"And what was that?"

"It wuz one of dem religious mugs wot comes Sunday to de Mulberry Park,
see, an' dat day he wuz gassin' to us kids 'bout lettin' a guy as had hit
youse onct doin' it ag'in; an' w'en he'd pumped hisself empty, he says to
me, says he, 'If a bad boy fetched youse a lick on youse cheek, wot would
youse do to 'im?' An' Ise says, 'I'd swot 'im in de gob, or punch 'im in
de slats,' says I; an' so de swipes calls me by dat noime. Honest, now,
oin't dat kinder talk jus' sickenin'?"

"But you must have another name," suggested Miss Durant, declining to
commit herself on that question.

"Sure."

"And what is that?"

"McGarrigle."

"And have you no father or mother?"

"Nah."

"Or brothers or sisters?"

"Nah. Ise oin't got nuttin'."