years, although the chronic sneer of an ideal manhood already sat
upon his lips. His hat was tipped with an air of challenge over
his eye. Between his teeth, a cigar stump was tilted at the angle
of defiance. He walked with a certain swing of the shoulders which
appalled the timid. He glanced over into the vacant lot in which
the little raving boys from Devil's Row seethed about the shrieking
and tearful child from Rum Alley.

"Gee!" he murmured with interest. "A scrap. Gee!"

He strode over to the cursing circle, swinging his shoulders
in a manner which denoted that he held victory in his fists.
He approached at the back of one of the most deeply engaged
of the Devil's Row children.

"Ah, what deh hell," he said, and smote the deeply-engaged one
on the back of the head. The little boy fell to the ground and
gave a hoarse, tremendous howl. He scrambled to his feet, and
perceiving, evidently, the size of his assailant, ran quickly off,
shouting alarms. The entire Devil's Row party followed him. They
came to a stand a short distance away and yelled taunting oaths at
the boy with the chronic sneer. The latter, momentarily, paid no
attention to them.

"What deh hell, Jimmie?" he asked of the small champion.

Jimmie wiped his blood-wet features with his sleeve.

"Well, it was dis way, Pete, see! I was goin' teh lick dat
Riley kid and dey all pitched on me."