One winter afternoon a number of years ago a boy stood leaning against the iron newel post of the old house, smoking a cigarette. He was perhaps fourteen or fifteen years of age, but he might have been either older or younger. The city gives even to children a sophisticated look that baffles the casual psychologist. The children playing on the steps behind the boy were stocky, swarthy Italians. But he was tall and loosely built, with dark red hair and hard blue eyes. He was thin and raw boned. Even his smartly cut clothes could not hide his extreme awkwardness of body, his big loose joints, his flat chest and protruding shoulder blades. His face, too, could not have been an Italian product. The cheek bones were high, the cheeks slightly hollowed, the nose and lips were rough hewn. The suave lines of the three little Latins behind him were entirely alien to this boy's face. It was warm and thawing so that the dead horse across the street, with the hugely swollen body, threw off an offensive odor. "Smells like the good ol' summer time," said the boy, nodding his head toward the horse and addressing the rag picker who was pulling a burlap sack into the basement. "Like ta getta da skin. No good now though," replied Luigi. "You gotta da rent money, Nucky?" "Got nuttin'," Nucky's voice was bitter. "That brown Liz you let in last night beats the devil shakin' dice." "We owe three mont' now, Nucky," said the Italian. "Yes, and how much trade have I pulled into your blank blank second floor for you durin' the time, you blank blank! If I hear any more about the rent, I'll split on you, you--" But before Nucky could continue his cursing, the Italian broke in with a volubility of oaths that reduced the boy to sullen silence. Having eased his mind, Luigi proceeded to drag the sack into the basement and slammed the door. "Nucky! Nucky! He's onlucky!" sang one of the small girls on the crumbling steps. "You dry up, you little alley cat!" roared the boy. "You're just a bastard!" screamed the child, while her playmates took up the cry. Nucky lighted a fresh cigarette and moved hurriedly up toward MacDougal Street. Once having turned the corner, he slackened his gait and climbed into an empty chair in the bootblack stand that stood in front of the Cafe Roma. The bootblack had not finished the first shoe when a policeman hoisted himself into the other chair. "How are you, Nucky?" he grunted. "All right, thanks," replied the boy, an uneasy look softening his cold eyes for the moment. "Didn't keep the job I got you, long," the officer said. "What was the rip this time?" "Aw, I ain't goin' to hold down ho five-dollar-a-week job. What do you think I am?"