"Did!" reasserted Ike. "Just where I was comin' myself."

Sam turned to him with a grin.

"Was yer now? By--! Ain't that funny? I thought of it right off."

"Sure. Same here!"

They both burst into a guffaw and executed an impromptu double-shuffle of
delight. They were at the door of a tenement house with steep stairs
leading into darkness. Up three flights pounded the two pairs of heavy
boots, till they reached a half-open door, whence issued the clatter of a
sewing-machine and the voices of children. Sam stood on the threshold
grinning debonairly, with hands thrust into his pockets. Ike peered over
his shoulder, also grinning.

It was a meagre room into which they gazed, a room the chief furniture of
which seemed to be babies. Two little ones sprawled on the floor. A third
tiny tot lay in a broken-down carriage beside the door. A pale, ill-looking
woman was running the machine. On the cot bed was crumpled a fragile
little fellow of about five, and a small pair of crutches lay across the
foot of the bed.

When the two boys appeared in the doorway, the woman stopped her machine
and the children set up a howl of pleasure. "Sammy! Ikey!" cried the woman,
smiling a wan welcome, as the babies crept and toddled toward the
newcomers. "Where ye come from?"

"Been to see the shops and the lights in the swell houses," answered Sammy