In front of the gruesome doorway he met a lurching figure.
It was his father, swaying about on uncertain legs.

"Give me deh can. See?" said the man, threateningly.

"Ah, come off! I got dis can fer dat ol' woman an' it 'ud be
dirt teh swipe it. See?" cried Jimmie.

The father wrenched the pail from the urchin. He grasped it
in both hands and lifted it to his mouth. He glued his lips to the
under edge and tilted his head. His hairy throat swelled until it
seemed to grow near his chin. There was a tremendous gulping
movement and the beer was gone.

The man caught his breath and laughed. He hit his son on the
head with the empty pail. As it rolled clanging into the street,
Jimmie began to scream and kicked repeatedly at his father's shins.

"Look at deh dirt what yeh done me," he yelled. "Deh ol'
woman 'ill be raisin' hell."

He retreated to the middle of the street, but the man did not
pursue. He staggered toward the door.

"I'll club hell outa yeh when I ketch yeh," he shouted, and
disappeared.

During the evening he had been standing against a bar drinking
whiskies and declaring to all comers, confidentially: "My home
reg'lar livin' hell! Damndes' place! Reg'lar hell! Why do I come