hirteen across the street, "and
don't let anybody steal the apples. Look out for Jimmy Mahone, he
stole a couple of apples right under my nose this mornin', the young
spalpeen!"

As they were crossing the street, a boy of fourteen ran up to Dodger.

"Dodger," said he, "you'd better go right over to Tim Bolton's. He's
in an awful stew--says he'll skin you alive if you don't come to the
s'loon right away."

Chapter IX.
The New Home.

"You can tell Tim Bolton," said Dodger, "that I don't intend to come
back at all."

"You don't mean it, Dodger?" said Ben Holt, incredulously.

"Yes, I do. I'm going to set up for myself."

"Oh, Dodger," said Florence, "I'm afraid you will get into trouble for
my sake!"

"Don't worry about that, Miss Florence. I'm old enough to take care of
myself, and I've got tired of livin' with Tim."

"But he may beat you!"

"He'll have to get hold of me first."

They had reached a four-story tenement of shabby brick, which was
evidently well filled up by a miscellaneous crowd of tenants; shop
girls, mechanics, laborers and widows, living by their daily toil.

Florence had never visited this part of the city, and her heart sank
within her as she followed Mrs. O'Keefe through a dirty hallway, up a
rickety staircase, to the second floor.

"One more flight of stairs, my dear," said Mrs. O'Keefe,
encouragingly. "I've got four rooms upstairs; one of them is for you,
and one for Dodger."

Florence did not reply. She began to understand at what cost she had
secured her freedom from a distasteful marriage.

In her Madison Avenue home all the rooms were light, clean and
luxuriously furnished. Here---- But words were inadequate to describe
the contrast.

Mrs. O'Keefe threw open the door of a back room about twelve feet
square, furnished in the plainest manner, uncarpeted, except for a
strip that was laid, like a rug, beside the bedstead.

There was a washstand, with a mirror, twelve by fifteen inches, placed
above it, a pine bureau, a couple of wooden chairs, and a cane-seated
rocking-chair.

"There, my dear, what do you say to that?" asked Mrs. O'Keefe,
complacently. "All nice and comfortable as you would wish to see."

"It is--very nice," said Florence, faintly, sacrificing truth to
politeness.

"And who do you think used to live here?" asked the apple-woman.

"I'm sure I don't know."

"The bearded woman in the dime museum," answered Mrs. O'Keefe, nodding
her head. "She liv