“We down't want no religion 'ere,” said Charlie, sneering.
“You'll get some, though, if you're not off quick!” said John. The man looked round for the dog and a moment afterward he had disappeared.
Glory came up behind. “O Aggie, woman, is it you?” she said, and then the girl began to cry in a drunken sob.
“Girls is cruel put upon, mum,” said one of the women; and another cried, “Nix, the slops!” and a policeman came pushing his way and saying: “Now, then, move on! We ain't going to stand 'ere all night.”
“Call a cab, officer,” said John.
“Yes sir—certainly, Father. Four-wheel-er!”
“Where do you live, Aggie?” said Glory; but the girl, now sobbing drunk, was too far gone to follow her.
“She lives in Brown's Square, sir,” said the woman who had spoken before, and when the cab came up she was asked to get in with the other three.
It was a tenement house, fronting to one facade of St. Jude's, and Aggie's room was on the second story. She was helpless, and John carried her up the stairs. The place was in hideous disorder, with clothing lying about on chairs, underclothing scattered on the floor, the fire out, many cigarette ends in the fender, a candle stuck in a beer bottle, and a bunch of withered roses on the table.
As John laid the girl on the bed she muttered, “Lemme alone!” and when he asked what was to happen to her when she grew old if she behaved like this when young, she mumbled: “Don't want to be old. Who's goin' to like me then, d'ye think?”