“And then look at the teams,” chimed in Lathers, with a jerk of his thumb toward the dock--“a lot of staggering horse-car wrecks you couldn't sell to a glue-factory. That big gray she had a-hoistin' is blind of an eye and sprung so forrard he can't hardly stand.” At this moment the refrain of a song from somewhere near the board fence came wafting through the air,-- “And he wiped up the floor wid McGeechy.” McGaw turned his head in search of the singer, and not finding him, resumed his position. “What are your rates per ton?” asked Babcock. “We're a-chargin' forty cints,” said McGaw, deferring to Lathers, as if for confirmation. “Who's 'we'?” “The Stevedores' Union.” “But Mrs. Grogan is doing it for thirty,” said Babcock, looking straight into McGaw's eyes, and speaking slowly and deliberately. “Yis, I heared she wuz a-cuttin' rates; but she can't live at it. If I does it, it'll be done roight, an' no throuble.” “I'll think it over,” said Babcock quietly, turning on his heel. The meanness of the whole affair offended him--two big, strong men vilifying a woman with no protector but her two hands. McGaw should never lift a shovel for him. Again the song floated out; this time it seemed nearer,-- “. . . wid McGeechy-- McGeechy of the Fourth.” “Dan McGaw's giv'n it to you straight,” said Lathers, stopping for a last word, his face thrust through the window again. “He's rigged for this business, and Grogan ain't in it with him. If she wants her work done right, she ought to send down something with a mustache.” Here the song subsided in a prolonged chuckle. McGaw turned, and caught sight of a boy's head, with its mop of black hair thrust through a crownless hat, leaning over a water cask. Lathers turned, too, and instantly lowered his voice. The head ducked out of sight. In the flash glance Babcock caught of the face, he recognized the boy Cully, Patsy's friend, and the driver of the Big Gray. It was evident to Babcock that Cully at that moment was bubbling over with fun. Indeed, this waif of the streets, sometimes called James Finnegan, was seldom known to be otherwise. “Thet's the wurrst rat in the stables,” said McGaw, his face reddening with anger. “What kin ye do whin ye're a-buckin' ag'in' a lot uv divils loike him?”--speaking through the window to Babcock. “Come out uv thet,” he called to Cully, “or I'll bu'st yer jaw, ye sneakin' rat!”