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This eBook from the Gutenberg Project consists of approximately 77 pages of information about Maggie, a Girl of the Streets.

In a hall of irregular shape sat Pete and Maggie drinking beer.  A submissive orchestra dictated to by a spectacled man with frowsy hair and a dress suit, industriously followed the bobs of his head and the waves of his baton.  A ballad singer, in a dress of flaming scarlet, sang in the inevitable voice of brass.  When she vanished, men seated at the tables near the front applauded loudly, pounding the polished wood with their beer glasses.  She returned attired in less gown, and sang again.  She received another enthusiastic encore.  She reappeared in still less gown and danced.  The deafening rumble of glasses and clapping of hands that followed her exit indicated an overwhelming desire to have her come on for the fourth time, but the curiosity of the audience was not gratified.

Maggie was pale.  From her eyes had been plucked all look of self-reliance.  She leaned with a dependent air toward her companion.  She was timid, as if fearing his anger or displeasure.  She seemed to beseech tenderness of him.

Pete’s air of distinguished valor had grown upon him until it threatened stupendous dimensions.  He was infinitely gracious to the girl.  It was apparent to her that his condescension was a marvel.

He could appear to strut even while sitting still and he showed that he was a lion of lordly characteristics by the air with which he spat.

With Maggie gazing at him wonderingly, he took pride in commanding the waiters who were, however, indifferent or deaf.

“Hi, you, git a russle on yehs!  What deh hell yehs lookin’ at?  Two more beehs, d’yeh hear?”

He leaned back and critically regarded the person of a girl with a straw-colored wig who upon the stage was flinging her heels in somewhat awkward imitation of a well-known danseuse.

At times Maggie told Pete long confidential tales of her former home life, dwelling upon the escapades of the other members of the family and the difficulties she had to combat in order to obtain a degree of comfort.  He responded in tones of philanthropy.  He pressed her arm with an air of reassuring proprietorship.

“Dey was damn jays,” he said, denouncing the mother and brother.

The sound of the music which, by the efforts of the frowsy-headed leader, drifted to her ears through the smoke-filled atmosphere, made the girl dream.  She thought of her former Rum Alley environment and turned to regard Pete’s strong protecting fists.  She thought of the collar and cuff manufactory and the eternal moan of the proprietor:  “What een hell do you sink I pie fife dolla a week for?  Play?  No, py damn.”  She contemplated Pete’s man-subduing eyes and noted that wealth and prosperity was indicated by his clothes.  She imagined a future, rose-tinted, because of its distance from all that she previously had experienced.

As to the present she perceived only vague reasons to be miserable.  Her life was Pete’s and she considered him worthy of the charge.  She would be disturbed by no particular apprehensions, so long as Pete adored her as he now said he did.  She did not feel like a bad woman.  To her knowledge she had never seen any better.

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