Here it was, however, that our hero and his sister lived. It was not his own choice, for he would have gladly lived in a neat, clean street; but he could not afford to pay a high rent, and so was compelled to remain where he was.
He paused in front of a dilapidated brick building of six stories. The bricks were defaced, and the blinds were broken, and the whole building looked miserable and neglected. There was a grocery shop kept in the lower part, and the remaining five stories were crowded with tenants, two or three families to a floor. The street was generally littered up with old wagons, in a broken-down condition, and odors far from savory rose from the garbage that was piled up here and there.
Crowds of pale, unhealthy-looking children, with dirty faces, generally bare-headed and bare-footed, played about, managing, with the happy faculty of childhood, to show light-hearted gayety, even under the most unpromising circumstances.
Rough and Ready, who was proud of his little sister, liked to have her appear more decently clad than most of the children in the street. Little Rose never appeared without a bonnet, and both shoes and stockings, and through envy of her more respectable appearance, some of the street girls addressed her with mock respect, as Miss Rose. But no one dared to treat her otherwise than well, when her brother was near, as his prowess was well known throughout the neighborhood.
Our hero dashed up the dark and rickety stair case, two stairs at a time, ascending from story to story, until he stood on the fifth landing.
A door was eagerly opened, and a little girl of seven called out joyfully:—
"Is it you, Rufus?"
At home, Rough and Ready dropped his street nickname, and was known by his proper appellation.
"Yes, Rosie. Did you get tired of waiting?"
"I'm always tired of waiting. The mornings seem so long."