which were filled with frowzy-headed women and children.
Something interesting was going on below, for in a moment every window
was thrown up, and a score of heads leaned far out. I followed suit.

In the sloppy, slush-filled courtyard below two untidy women were
engaged in coarse vituperation that shortly led to blows. The window
next to mine was quickly raised, and I drew back to escape being
included in the category of curious spectators to this disgraceful
scene--but too late.

"What's the row?" a voice asked with friendly familiarity. It was the
girl who had been frying the bacon, and she still held a greasy knife in
her hand. I answered that I did not know. She was very young, hardly
more than sixteen. She had a coarse, bold, stupid face, topped by a
heavy black pompadour that completely concealed any forehead she might
be supposed to possess. She was decidedly an ill-looking girl; but the
young fellow in his shirt-sleeves who now stuck his head out of the
window alongside of hers was infinitely more so. He had a weak face,
covered with pimples, and the bridge of his nose was broken; but,
despite these manifest facial defects, and notwithstanding the squalor
of his surroundings, a very high collar and a red necktie gave him the
unmistakable air of the cheap dandy. Again I gave a civil evasion to the
girl's trivial question, and as I did so her companion, looking over her
frowzy pompadour, stared at me with insolent familiarity. I jerked my
head in hurriedly, and, shutting the window, turned my attention to
Little Lottie. It was not long before my tea-kettle was singing merrily.
I was about to sit down to the first meal in my new abode, when an
insinuating rat-tat sounded on the door. I opened it to find the
ill-looking young fellow leaning languidly against the door-jamb, a
cigarette between his teeth.

"What do you wish?" I asked, in my most matter-of-fact manner.

He puffed some smoke in my face, then took the cigarette from his mouth
and looked at me, evidently at a loss for an answer.

"The girl in there wants to know if you'll loan her one of your plates,"
he replied at last.

"I am sorry," I said, with freezing politeness--"I am very sorry, but I
have only one plate, and I'll need that myself," and I closed the door.

After breakfast I walked up to First Avenue to lay in my provisions for
the day--a loaf of bread, a quart of potatoes, a quarter of a pound of
butter, and two cents' worth of milk. Never