“I guess every geezer along the line has done the stunt at some stage o’ the game. Why, I’ve been so tight on the hooks that I couldn’t tell the difference between a coon blowin’ a cake walk an’ a gutter band handin’ out the ‘Dead March in Saul’; an’ if Queen Anne cottages was sellin’ for a quarter a bunch I couldn’t buy in a cellar window. I tell youse what it is, Kerrigan, when a guy’s room rent’s six weeks on the wrong side o’ the ledger an’ his meal ticket wont stan’ for another hole in it, it’s time for him to start somethin’ doin’, an’ try an’ git his eyes on a graft what’s got ‘In God we trust’ chalked on its back. Ain’t that right?” “A man entirely without money,” said Mason, “is certainly an object for sympathy.” Larry gestured his contempt. “I’d like to deal in that,” said he. “If I could sell it at two bits a crate I’d make money till youse couldn’t rest. The lobsters what runs the beanery’s got sympathy to give away; but youse couldn’t coax a beef stew out o’ the kitchen if ye had a smile like Maude Adams. And the gent that runs the hock shop keeps it in stock too, but the same guy wouldn’t lend youse a half a plunk on a pair o’ bags wit’ a hole in ’em if ye was spittin’ blood. “Sympathy,” continued the square-jawed young man, “is the cheapest graft that ever looked over the hill; it’s got every other con game skinned to death and a guy in a tight pull takes chances o’ breakin’ his neck over it every time he opens his mouth. But, say, on the level, when a man’s single, an’ on’y got one end to watch he kin pipe up a breeze if he ain’t dead leary on action; but when he’s got a full hand o’ kids like me friend Chip Nolan, an’ has to keep leather on their tootseys an’ their first teeth busy three times a day, he’s got to keep his t’ink-tank stirrin’ to beat the band, or he’ll look like a last year’s poster on a broken-down fence.” He climbed up to his high seat and gathered up the reins. “Don’t t’ink from this song an’ dance,” said he, “that I’ve ever stood in line wit’ a yellow ticket an’ a tin can. But, say, as Chip Nolan ’ed say: ‘Yer on the turf, mate, but youse ain’t under it yet.’ See? Git ’ep, Pete!” Chapter II “_Ding, dong, ding-el, ding-el, dong, Listen to the echo in the dell, Hurry, little children, Sunday morn, There goes the old Church bell._” HARRIGAN. IT was Sunday morning. The iron heart of the bell that hung in the tower of St. Michael’s beat against its brazen ribs, and the clangour went rioting over the housetops. Streams of people, dressed in their Sunday best, picked their way across the railroad toward the sound; heavy faces peered through bedroom windows and sleep-dry lips murmured curses at the noise; a shifting engine panted heavily as it dragged a milk train over the rails, and spat cinders into the face of day.