"I don't
believe in slugging no woman in a houseful of people."
"Gent'men," said Mr. Peters, severely, through his russet stubble,
"remember that you are speaking of my wife. A man who would lift his
hand to a lady except in the way of--"
"Maguire," said Ragsy, pointedly, "has got his bock beer sign out. If
we had a dollar we could--"
"Hush up!" said Mr. Peters, licking his lips. "We got to get that
case note somehow, boys. Ain't what's a man's wife's his? Leave it to
me. I'll go over to the house and get it. Wait here for me."
"I've seen 'em give up quick, and tell you where it's hid if you kick
'em in the ribs," said Kidd.
"No man would kick a woman," said Peters, virtuously. "A little
choking--just a touch on the windpipe--that gets away with 'em--and
no marks left. Wait for me. I'll bring back that dollar, boys."
High up in a tenement-house between Second Avenue and the river lived
the Peterses in a back room so gloomy that the landlord blushed to
take the rent for it. Mrs. Peters worked at sundry times, doing odd
jobs of scrubbing and washing. Mr. Peters had a pure, unbroken record
of five years without having earned a penny. And yet they clung
together, sharing each other's hatred and misery, being creatures
of habit. Of habit, the power that keeps the earth from flying to
pieces; though there is some silly theory of gravitation.
Mrs. Peters reposed her 200 pounds on the safer of the two chairs and
gazed stolidly out the one window at the brick wall opposite.
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