"Let go!" snarled Reddy. "I'll go home when I feel like it!" Bradley's hand closed a little tighter. "Don't make a fool of yourself, Reddy," he said gravely. "You'll----" And that was all. MacQuigan wasn't much more than a boy, not much more than that, and hot-headed--and his chums were looking on. He freed himself from Bradley's hold--with a smash of his fist in Bradley's face. Fight? No; there wasn't any fight. There was a laugh--from old John MacQuigan, who had been trailing the young bloods up the street. And as Bradley, after staggering back from the unexpected blow, recovered himself, Reddy MacQuigan, followed by old John, was disappearing into Faro Dave's "El Dorado" in front of him. Bradley went home alone. Supper was ready--it was always ready, as everything else was where little old Mrs. MacQuigan was concerned; and there were four plates on the red-checkered tablecloth--as there always were--even on pay day! Bradley sat down, with Mrs. MacQuigan opposite him. Not much to look at--Mrs. MacQuigan. A thin, sparse little woman in a home-made black alpaca dress; the gray hair, thinning, brushed smooth across her forehead; wrinkles in the patient face, a good many of them; a hint of wistfulness in the black eyes, that weren't as bright as they used to be; not very pretty hands, they were red and lumpy around the knuckles. Not much to look at--just a little old woman, brave as God Almighty makes them--just Mrs. MacQuigan. Bradley, uneasy, glancing at her furtively now and again, ate savagely, without relish. There wasn't much said; nothing at all about old John and young Reddy. Mrs. MacQuigan never asked a question--it was pay day. There wasn't much said until after the meal was over, and Bradley had lighted his pipe and pushed back his chair; with Mrs. MacQuigan lingering at the table, kind of wistfully it seemed, kind of listening, kind of hanging back from putting away the dishes and taking the two empty plates off the table--and then she smiled over at Bradley as though there wasn't anything on her mind at all. "Faith, Martin," she said, "sure I don't know at all, at all, what I'd be doing not seeing you around the house; but it's wondered I have often enough you've not picked out some nice girl and made a home of your own." The words in their suddenness came to Bradley with a shock; and, his face strained, he stared queerly at Mrs. MacQuigan. A little startled, Mrs. MacQuigan half rose from her chair. "What is it, Martin?" she asked tremulously. For a moment more, Bradley stared at her. Strange that she should have spoken like that to-night when there seemed more than ever a sort of grim analogy between her life and his, that seemed like a bond to-night drawing them closer--that seemed, somehow, to urge him to pour out his heart to her--there was motherliness in the sweet old face that seemed to draw him out of himself as no one else had for more years than he cared to remember--as even she never had before.