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She remembered the Butchertown tough in the dining-room at Weasel Park who had come over to the table to apologize, and the Irishman at the tug-of-war who had abandoned all thought of fighting with him the moment he learned his identity. A very much spoiled young man was a thought that flitted frequently through Saxon's mind; and each time she condemned it as ungenerous.
D'ye get me? I apologize. Will you shake hands?" Gruffly, Billy said, "It's all right forget it, sport;" and sullenly he shook hands and with a slow, massive movement thrust the other back toward his own table. Saxon was glowing. Here was a man, a protector, something to lean against, of whom even the Butchertown toughs were afraid as soon as his name was mentioned.
"Hey, you!" he called. "You with the velvet slippers. Me for you." The girl beside him put her arm around his neck and tried to hush him, and through the mufflement of her embrace they could hear him gurgling: "I tell you she's some goods. Watch me go across an' win her from them cheap skates." "Butchertown hoodlums," Mary sniffed.
As nearly as I can remember, the main entrance was on Clay Street. On one side the windows opened on Twelfth Street, on the other lay a beautiful garden extending quite to the edge of "Shokoe Hill," which overlooked the classic valley of "Butchertown," through the midst of which ran "Shokoe Creek." The boys of this region, from generation to generation, had been renowned for exceeding pugnacity.
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