“That’s what they call it over beyond the Carpet Mills,” explained Johnny. “Shanty Town, you know; Goatville; see?” “Oh, yes! I don’t believe I’ve been there yet.” “Well, it isn’t much to look at,” laughed Johnny. “We lived there until about three years ago. We weren’t as poor as most of them, but there were six of us in five rooms, Grant. Then dad made his pile and we bought this place.” Johnny looked about him not altogether approvingly and shook his head. “It’s fine enough, all right, but, say, fellows, it’s awfully--what’s the word I seen--saw the other day? Stodgy, that’s it! I guess it’s going to take us another three years to get used to it.” “He misses having the pig in the parlor,” observed Slim gravely to Leonard. The latter looked toward Johnny McGrath anxiously, but Johnny only grinned. “’Twas never that bad with us,” he replied, “but I mind the day the Cleary’s nanny-goat walked in the kitchen and ate up half of dad’s nightshirt, and mother near killed him with a flat-iron!” “Why did she want to kill your father with a flat-iron?” asked Slim mildly. “The goat, I said.” “You did not, Johnny. You told us it was a nanny-goat and said your mother nearly killed ‘him.’ If that doesn’t mean your father--” “Well, anyway, I had to lick Terry Cleary before there was peace between us again,” laughed Johnny. Then his face sobered. “Sure, up here on the Hill,” he added, “you couldn’t find a scrap if you was dying!” The others had to laugh, Slim ejaculating between guffaws: “Johnny, you’ll be the death of me yet!” Johnny’s blue eyes were twinkling again and his broad Irish mouth smiling. “It’s mighty queer,” he went on, “how grand some of these neighbors of ours are up here. Take the Paternos crowd next door here. Sure, six years ago that old Dago was still selling bananas from a wagon, and to-day--wow!--the only wagon he rides in is a limousine. And once, soon after we moved in, mother was in the back yard seeing the maid hung the clothes right, or something, and there was Mrs. Paternos’ black head stuck out of an upstairs window, and thinking to be neighborly, mind you, mother says to her, ‘Good morning, ma’am,’ or something like that, and the old Eye-talian puts her nose in the air and slams down the windy--window, I mean!” “You’ve got to learn, Johnny,” explained Slim, “that you can’t become an aristocrat, even in this free country of ours, in less than five years. That gives you about two to go, son. Be patient.” “Patient my eye,” responded Johnny serenely. “It’ll take more than five years to make aristocrats of the McGraths, for they’re not wanting it. Just the same, Slim, it makes me sick, the way some folks put on side just because they’ve been out of the tenements a few years. I guess the lot of us, and I’m meaning you, too, couldn’t go very many years back before we’d be finding bananas or lead pipe or something ple-bee-an like that hanging on the old family tree!”