“That's d' foist I knows of d' Petersens. D' mother an' kid takes a back-room in our tenement; an' after dey gets 'quainted, she tells me Rag about her man dyin'. She ain't so old, this Petersen woman, an' only she's all broke up about her man croakin', she ain't a bad looker, see! wit' blue eyes an' a mop of gold hair. D' kid's name is Hilda, an,' except she's only seven years an' no bigger'n a drink of whiskey, she's a ringer for her mother.
“Well! like I says, d' Petersens—what's left of 'em after d' man quits livin'—organised in d' back room on our floor. An' because folks who wants to chew must woik, d' Petersen woman gets a curve on an' goes to doin' stunts wit' a tub. She chases 'round doin' washin', see!
“It's when d' old goil is away slingin' suds that I gets nex' wit 'd' kid. She's dropped her ragbaby down be a gratin' one day an' her heart is broke. She t'inks it's a cinch case of all over wit' d' poor ragbaby, an' she's cryin' to beat d' band.
“But she gets it ag'in. Me an' a big fat cop who comes waddlin' along, tears up d' gratin' an' fishes out Hilda's doll, an' after that me an' her gets to be dead chummy; what youse might call * pals.'
“Hilda's shy at foist, an' a bit leary of me—I ain't no bute at me best—but she gets used to seein' me about, an' as I stakes her to or'nges onct or twict, at last she gets stuck on me.
“D' Petersens, an' me, an' me Rag is neighbours on d' same floor for near two years. An' days when I comes home early, an' me breat' ain't smellin' of booze—for d' kid welches every time she sniffs d' lush on me, see!—I used to go in an' kiss Hilda same as she's me own. An' between youse an' me,” and here a drop gathered in Chucky's cold eye, “I ain't above tippin' it off on d' quiet, I t'inks a heap of this young-one, an' feels better every time I gets me lamps on her.
“D' finish comes t'ree days ago. D' old goil Petersen is away woikin', an' Hilda, for all it's so cold, is playin' in d' passage-way. There's one of them plumber hold-ups fixin 'd' water pipe where it's sprung a leak, an' he's got one of them dinky little fire pots which plumbers lug 'round wit' em.
“While this plumber stiff is busy wit' his graft, poor little Hilda t'inks she'll warm her dolly's mits be d' blaze. She's holdin' her ragbaby's hooks over d' plumber's fire as I comes up d' stairs; an' as she hears me foot, an' toins smilin' to make sure it's me, her frock catches, an' when she chases screechin' into me arms, she's a bundle of live flame. Say! I'd sooner ten to one it was me, an' that's no bluff!
“I wraps me coat over her, an' gives d' fire d' quick smother, see! An' I boins me dukes until it comes to bein' mighty near a case of stumps wit' Chucky d' balance of his joiney to d' tomb.
“But what th' 'ell! It all don't do no good. D' poor kid has swallered d' fire, an' she's d' deadest ever before even I takes her out of me coat.