Barring this tenuous evidence, whatever may have passed in the Little Red Doctor's former existence was wholly unknown to Our Square, even after he became one of us. He trailed no clouds of glory and apparently no clues from his previous existence. All that we knew was that he landed from a long voyage in tropical lands and set up his shingle, “Dr. Smith,” at No. 11. Business did not rush to him. We are a conservative and cautious community in Our Square. We watched and weighed him. Presently he got a little foothold in the reeking slum tenements which surround our struggling and cherished respectability. It could not have been a profitable practice. But it afforded experience. Sometimes he came back with triumph in his face; sometimes with stern gloom; sometimes with a black eye, for the practice of medicine as carried on in our immediate environment involves sundry departments not taught in the schools, and branches out into strange and eclectic activities. In those early days I overheard Terry the Cop assert that the new physician could “lick his weight in wildcats.” But when I informed Terry that this would mean at least five of the species, Terry replied airily that he was no Zoo attendant, but he knew a scrapper when he saw one. If one may credit the Murphy family, the Little Red Doctor gained his real foothold in Our Square through force, invasion, violence, and brutal assault. The Murphys occupy the ground floor of the corner house abutting on Our Alley, under the workroom of Dead-Men's-Shoes, who, through their unwitting instrumentality, became sponsor for the Little Red Doctor. Dead-Men's-Shoes comes by his name from his business, which is the purchase and resale of the apparel of the recently deceased, collected on wagon trips over a wide radius about New York. Thus it comes about that the feet of the mighty have been represented in Our Square, and more than one of us has worn the giant's robe as tailored on Fifth Avenue. The ol'-clo' man's real name is Dadmun Schütz, and he is a Yankee from Connecticut where there are many Dadmuns and more Schutzes, but how and why he came to Our Square is a story that I do not care to tell. The slight alteration in his name to fit his trade was so logical as to be inevitable. Dead-Men's-Shoes is tall and rugged and powerful and slow, and he always wears an extinct species of silk hat on his business rounds. In the day which introduced him to the Little Red Doctor, the Murphys had declared holiday and gone fishing and caught fish. Naturally they held alcoholic celebration in the evening. Passing the house, the Little Red Doctor heard the sounds of revelry; also another sound which checked his progress. He stuck his head in at the window, took a hasty survey, followed the head into the room and laid hands upon Timmy Murphy _aetat_ ten. Astonished but in no way dismayed by the invasion, Paterfamilias Murphy immediately threw a whiskey bottle