A squad of stout, florid men with butchers’ aprons started for the door. The girl arose hastily.
“Mama!” she called, “steh’ auf! Es ist Fourteenth street.”
The little woman woke up, gathered the umbrellas in her arms, and bustled after the marketmen, her daughter leading the way. He sat as one dreaming.
“Ach!” he sighed, and ran his hand through his dark hair, “so rasch!”
And he went out after them.
DEATH COMES TO CAT ALLEY
The dead-wagon stopped at the mouth of Cat Alley. Its coming made a commotion among the children in the block, and the Chief of Police looked out of his window across the street, his attention arrested by the noise. He saw a little pine coffin carried into the alley under the arm of the driver, a shoal of ragged children trailing behind. After a while the driver carried it out again, shoved it in the wagon, where there were other boxes like it, and, slamming the door, drove off.
A red-eyed woman watched it down the street until it disappeared around the corner. Then she wiped her eyes with her apron and went in.