“But what is it?” Petite Jeanne stepped back, half in terror, as she gripped Florence’s arm and stared about her.

They had just alighted from a Halsted Street car and had entered the maze of booths, carts, rough board counters, and wagons. “This is Maxwell Street on a bright Sunday afternoon in late autumn,” replied Merry with a smile.

They were on their way, Petite Jeanne and Merry, to the promised party at which many mysterious bags and trunks were to be opened. Florence was with them; so, too, was Angelo. Dan Baker also had agreed to come at the last moment. So they were quite a party, five in all.
133

About these portable stores swarmed a motley throng. Some were white, some brown, some black. All, stall keepers and prospective purchasers alike were poor, if one were to judge by attire.

“Don’t be afraid,” Merry smiled at the little French girl. “These are harmless, kindly people. They are poor, to be sure. But in this world, ninety out of every hundred are poor and probably always will be.

“Some of these people have a few poor things to sell. The others hope to purchase them at a bargain; which indeed they often do.

“So you see,” she ended, “like other places in the world, Maxwell Street deserves its place in the sun, for it serves the poor of this great city. What could be nobler?”

“Ah, yes, What could be nobler?” the little French girl echoed.

“How strange!” she murmured as they walked along. “There is no order here. See! There are shoes. Here are cabbages. And here are more shoes. There are chickens. Here are more shoes. And yonder are stockings to go with the shoes. How very queer.”
134

“Yes,” Florence sighed, “there is no order in the minds of the very poor. Perhaps that is why they are poor.”

“Come!” Merry cried impatiently. “We must find the shops of our friends. They are on Peoria Street. Two blocks up.”

“Lead the way.” Petite Jeanne motioned her friends to follow.

As they wedged their way through the throng, Petite Jeanne found her spirits drooping. “How sad it all seems!” she thought to herself. “There is a little dried up old lady. She must be eighty. She’s trying to sell a few lemons. And here is a slip of a girl. How pinched her face is! She’s watching over a few wretched stockings. If you whistled through them they’d go into rags.

“And yet,” she was ready to smile again, “they all seem cheerful.”

She had said this last aloud. “Yes,” Merry answered, “cheerful and kind. Very considerate of one another. It is as if suffering, hunger, rags, disease, brought friends who cannot be bought with gold.”
135

“It is true. And such a beautiful truth. I—”

Petite Jeanne broke short off, then dodged quickly to one side. She had barely escaped being run down by an automobile. Coming in from behind, the driver had not honked his horn.

The man was large. The companion at his side was large. The bright blue car was large. The whole outfit fairly oozed comfort, riches and self-satisfaction.

“Stand gawking around and you’ll get a leg taken off!” The driver’s voice was harsh, unkind. He spoke to the little French girl.

The hot fire that smouldered behind Angelo’s dark eyes blazed forth.

“What are you doing here, anyway?” he demanded in a fury. “Running people down! Crowding them about! You with your big car! If you want to gaze, why don’t you walk as we do?”
136

The car came to a halt. A deep flush had spread over the driver’s face. Springing from the car, he launched a blow that sent the slight Italian youth spinning into the crowd behind him.

But what was this? Hardly had the man swayed back, a leer of satisfaction on his face, than a whirling catapult launched itself upon him. A circle of steel closed about his neck. He found himself whirling through space. He landed with a mighty clatter atop a pile of frying pans and stew ............