earliest moment, like the fledglings in a nest, were pushed out to shift for themselves. Mary had slept beneath docks, in ash cans and dark alleys, and although still a child, there was nothing left for her to learn concerning the evils of this world.
As I was sharing my sweets with her, the Boston man called down from his safe vantage ground: “Try your love-making on Mary!”
“What’s that bloke talkin’ about?” she asked, noisily chewing her candy.
“He has challenged me,” I answered.
“Say,” she said, looking at the generous proportions of the Boston man and then at me, “he’s got a cinch, ain’t he?”
Nevertheless, I accepted the challenge.
“Mary,” I began, in my gentlest and most persuasive tones, “Mary, I want you to wash yourself.”
“Ain’t got no soap,” was the reply.
“Will you wash yourself if I furnish the soap?”
“Nop”—very decidedly—“no soap in mine.”