It was about ten o'clock in the evening when Ed Butler arrived at his sister's house.
The location we may as well state was up in the Bronx, beyond Port Morris docks—we do not care to be more definite.
It was back of a little strip of water front which as yet remained unimproved.
Entering the house after a few words with Mrs. Pow Chow, who seemed disposed to shield her husband from blame, charging that Ed "struck him first," and so on, the three found themselves seated in the kitchen.
Pow lit a cigarette, and, turning to his wife, asked:
"Well, Ethel, shall I tell Eddie what we want of him to-night?"
"You can do as you like," replied the girl, "but if it was me I wouldn't tell him a blessed thing. I'd just make him do it, that's all."
"Do what?" demanded Ed, whose temper was rising under the contemptuous way in which the girl seemed disposed to treat him. "You will find that it won't be so easy to make me do what I don't want to, I guess."
"Sure," said Pow. "Now don't be so soon, Ethel. Eddie's a good boy. He's a kind of brother of mine, too."
"Not on your life!" cried Ed. "Ethel is no sister of mine."