life wid yer always gettin' out of me sight. Come back wid ye
now, or I'll beat the very life out o' ye."

And if the poor little urchins had not managed to get around the corner
so as to be out of sight, they would slink dejectedly back to wait for
a more favourable opportunity.

Terry Ahearn's home, if so sweet a name could rightly be given to such
wretched quarters, was in the last house on the left-hand side, the two
squalid rooms which served all the purposes of kitchen, parlour, and
bedrooms being on the second floor, and right against the brewery wall.
Here he had been born, and had grown up pretty much as the weeds
grow--according to his own devices. Although the only survivor of
several children, his father, who bore the unprepossessing nickname of
"Black Mike," hardly ever noticed him, unless it was to swear at him or
cuff him. When sober, Black Mike was sulky, and when drunk,
quarrelsome, so that Terry had many excuses for not loving him. As
most of Mike's earnings went over the bar at the Crown and Anchor, his
wife was obliged to go out scrubbing in order to provide the bread and
molasses which, with a few potatoes and an occasional bit of meat,
formed the staple of Terry's diet.

With anything like a fair chance, poor Peggy Ahearn would have made a
tolerably good mother. But her married life had been one long
martyrdom, which had broken her spirit and soured her temper. She
loved Terry with all her heart, and he loved her in return; yet an
observer of their mutual relations might well have thought otherwise.
He was very apt to be saucy to her if his father was not near, and she
rarely addressed him in terms of affection or gentleness.

From such surroundings Terry, naturally enough, was only too glad to
escape. Even the public school was more endurable, especially during
the long cold winter. In the bright long days of summer there was the
Long Wharf, on which his father worked, and where Terry's companions
gathered every day, rain or shine, from the beginning of May to the end
of October.

In Terry's general appearance there was nothing at first sight to
distinguish him from any of the other "wharf rats" who were his
constant companions. They all wore battered hats, ragged clothes, and
dirty faces. They all had a fine capacity for shirking work, and for
making a great deal of noise when they were enjoying themselves.

If you had occasion to talk with Terry, however, you would be a dull
ob