her skirt. "Here's a orange I brought you, Chick. You ain't been sick,
have you?"

"Naw! He ain't been sick, but he took that bath you ast him to, and
where's his nickel at?"

Myrtella stood and watched the boys until the corner grocery swallowed
them and their new nickel, then she sighed and turned into Bean Alley.

There were no streets here, and an occasional rock or tin can were the
only islands in a sea of mud. The Flathers' cottage, consisting of two
rooms and a half attic, rested its weight against the cottage next it,
with something of the blind reliance that Phineas Flathers rested upon
the Church. On its other side it commanded an uninterrupted view of
the Dump Heap, which was the background for all the juvenile social
life of that section of Billy-goat Hill.

Here ships were launched in mud puddles, flower gardens attempted in
tin cans, and fierce wars waged between rival gangs; here embryo
mothers played with stick and rag dolls, and aspirants for the circus
performed acrobatic feats on the one bit of fence that had not tumbled
down. And all this activity went on almost under the wheels of the
dump carts that passed to and fro all day. Myrtella, picking her way
through the mud, was just turning the corner of the Flathers' house
when her eyes fell upon a broken window-pane stuffed with a woolen
skirt which she had given to Maria to make over into trousers for
Chick. She promptly jerked it out with a force that brought the glass
with it, and by the time she reached the back door, her jaw was set
and her brows knit.