“Well?” says the sergeant within, glaring intolerantly at the twain as they push before him. The appearance of the injured man naturally takes his attention most. “Lookit me eye,” begins the wounded man, with that curious tone of injured dignity which the drunk and disorderly so frequently assume. “That--” and he interpolates a string of oaths descriptive of the man who has assaulted him “--hit me with a banister leg.” “Who hit you? Where is he? What did he hit you for?” This from the sergeant in a breath. The man begins again. The woman beside him interrupts with a description of her own. “Shut up!” yells the sergeant savagely, showing his teeth. “I’ll ram me fist down your throat if you don’t. Let him tell what’s the matter with him. You keep still.” The woman, overawed by the threat, stops her tirade. The man resumes. “He hit me with a banister leg.” “What for?” “It was this way, Captain. I went to call on this here lady and that ---- came in and wanted me to get out of the room. I----” “What relation is this man to you?” inquires the sergeant, addressing the woman. “Nothin’,” she replies blandly. “Isn’t the other man your husband?” [Illustration: Hell’s Kitchen] “No, he ain’t, the blank-blank-blank-blank ----” and you have a sweet string of oaths. “He’s a ----,” and she begins again to ardently describe the assailant. The man assists her as best he can. “I thought so,” exclaims the officer vigorously. “Now, you two get the hell out of here, and stay out, before I club you both. Get on out! Beat it!” “Ain’t you goin’ to lock him up?” demands the victim. “I lock nothing,” vouchsafes the sergeant intolerantly. “Clear out of here, both of you. If I catch you coming around here any more I’ll give you both six months.” He calls an officer from the rear room and the two complainants, together with others who have ventured in, myself included, beat a sullen retreat, the crowd welcoming us on the outside. A buzz of conversation follows. War is promised. When the victim is safely down the steps he exclaims: “All right! I ast him to arrest him. Now let ’em look out. I’ll go back there, I will. Yes, I will. I’ll kill the bastard, that’s what I’ll do. I’ll show him whether he’ll hit me with a banister leg, the ----,” and as he goes now, rather straight and yet rhythmically forward, his assailant, who has been opposite him all the while but in the middle of the street, keeps an equal and amusing pace. The crowd follows and turns into Thirty-ninth Street, a half-block east of Tenth Avenue. It stops in front of an old, stale, four-story red brick tenement. Some of its windows are glowing softly in the night. On the third floor some one is playing a flute. Quiet and peace seem to reign, and yet this----