the lives of many who were to be dearer to me than all that had gone
before; I was not idly sent to know and love Westmoreland, and Mary
Virginia, and Laurence; and, above all, Slippy McGee, whom we of
Appleboro call the Butterfly Man.




CHAPTER II

THE COMING OF SLIPPY MCGEE


On a cold gray morning in December two members of my flock, Poles who
spoke but little English and that little very badly, were on their way
to their daily toil in the canning factory. It is a long walk from the
Poles' quarters to the factory, and the workpeople must start early,
for one is fined half an hour's time if one is five minutes late. The
short-cut is down the railroad tracks that run through the mill
district--for which cause we bury a yearly toll of the children of the
poor.

Just beyond the freight sheds, signal tower, and water tank, is a
grade crossing where so many terrible things have happened that the
colored people call that place Dead Man's Crossin' and warn you not to
go by there of nights because the signal tower is haunted and Things
lurk in the rank growth behind the water tank, coming out to show
themselves after dark. If you _must_ pass it then you would better
turn your coat inside out, pull down your sleeves over your hands, and
be very careful to keep three fingers twisted for a Sign. This is a