"Sure, I did; an' didn't I get fired out?"
"What fer?" inquired the red-haired lad, eagerly.
"Scrappin'," was the laconic reply. And then, as his companions seemed to require fuller explanation, he continued: "Dat blue-faced Mike sat nex' to me at de table, an' he took me pie off o' me. So I handed him one in the face, and he yelled like he was hurted, but he was not hurted a bit, and he falls down on de table an' makes a big bluff—wid me pie in his pockut all de time. Well, Pink-whiskers, de super, he seen me hit Mike, and he rushes up ter me, and grabs me, and turns me out, and says as how I'll never come inside de mission to grub again." There was a brief silence, then Tag continued, "But I got square wid Mike de nex' day."
"Did youse do him?" asked Ratsey.
"Did I do him?" repeated Tag. "Have youse seen him?" Neither of his listeners had seen the unfortunate Mike. "Well," added Tag, "I guess his mudder 'ain't got t'rough pickin' up de pieces yet. I 'ain't been down to Hester Street to see, neider."
"Den, if youse is fruz outen de mission," said Swipes, "sure, we'll all have to hustle fer a Christmas feed."
"'Less it drops from der sky," put in the hopeful Ratsey; and then all three danced vigorously on the grating.
By the time they had reached this conclusion it had grown dark—or as dark as it ever gets in the shopping district of the great city, where the hundreds of electric lights blink and twinkle over the sidewalks. There seemed now to be a lull in the rush of people that had been surging up and down the thoroughfare all the afternoon, and when one of the boys looked up at a big clock a block away, he saw that it was past six o'clock.
"Let's go over to de dago's an' touch him," suggested Tag, when the hour had been announced; "we won't sell no more papes now till de late extrys is out."
"Dat's what," returned Swipes. "We touch de dago! If we gets grub ter-night, we calls it a Christmas-eve dinner!"