"Got any money?"
"Maybe two bits."
"Let's send him in for beer," the other proposed; and a new animation stirred the dilapidated one and the talker.
"You can go to hell!" Baggs responded without heat.
"That ain't no nice way to talk," the second proclaimed. "Peebles, here, meant that them who has divides with all that hasn't."
Peebles directed a hard animosity at Harry Baggs. His gaze flickered over the latter's heavy-set body and unmoved face. "Want your jaw slapped crooked?" he demanded with a degree of reservation.
"No," the boy placidly replied.
A stillness enveloped them, accentuated by the minute crackling of the disintegrating wood. The dark increased and the stars came out; the clip-clip of a horse's hoofs passed in the distance and night. Harry Baggs became flooded with sleep.
"I s'pose I can stay in one of these brownstones?" he queried, indicating the huts.
No one answered and he stumbled toward a small shelter. He was forced to bend, edge himself into the close damp interior, where he collapsed into instant unconsciousness on a heap of bagging. In the night he cried out, in a young strangely distressed voice; and later a drift of rain fell on the roof and ran in thin cold streams over his still body.
He woke late the following morning and emerged sluggishly into a sparkling rush of sunlight. The huts
