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Munching an apple, Mugsy walked out of the tenement house door and swaggered down the steps. Once in the street, he paused to survey his domain: an old woman wearing a black shawl; Swede, the janitor, dumping ashes; a couple of little boys sucking on sugar sticks.

Mugsy eyed the pair with obvious meaning.

"Scram!" he said. "'Fore I blast ya!"

They turned quickly and crossed the street. Mugsy looked after them for a moment.

"Yah! Yah! Know who's boss, don't ya? Me -- Mugsy -- the toughest kid in the block! And I can lick any guy that says it ain't so!"

His last words were lost on the disinterested ears of Swede and the old lady. The little boys had already ducked into the black pit of an open doorway.

Mugsy sauntered on up the street. There wasn't much doing in the alley. Mugsy idly contemplated its emptiness. Shafts of light that somehow filtered through the maze of overhead power lines and fire escapes revealed only a dirty white cat stalking a garbage can. Mugsy felt strangely uncomfortable in this nearly deserted canyon of brick walls and concrete. He flung the apple core at the cat. The scampering animal returned to him some sense of composure.

Where was the gang? Maybe over on Clancy Street, swiping potatoes from the pushcarts. Maybe they got hold of some dough and went to the movies. Sissies!

With nothing better to do, Mugsy slouched on and the roar of the traffic at the other end of the alley met him with a sudden rush. He turned left on a street lined with brown-stone fronts and well-worn wooden steps. Shuffling along with his head down and hands plunged deep in his pockets, almost by instinct Mugsy avoided the procession of hurrying people, squawking peddlers and baby-carts. "Hello, Nelson."

Mugsy stopped as one frozen. With quick deliberation, he wheeled about. On his face was an incredulous expression. His hands came out of his pockets and assumed a defiant attitude. "Did you call me that?" he barked. The slender, quiet-faced boy, sitting on the steps, smiled disarmingly. "I'll bet you've forgotten me," he said. Mugsy shuffled toward the boy. They were about the same age, but with his shaggy, unkempt hair, and his bulging, misfit clothes, Mugsy seemed older.

"Nobody calls me that," was Mugsy's ominous reply.

The boy on the brown-stone steps looked puzzled for a moment.

"But that's your name. I couldn't forget. Remember -- we used to play Duck On A Rock? I'm sure it's Nelson."

Mugsy drew back his fist in a warning gesture.

"Listen," he said, "forget that Nelson stuff! Any kid that calls me that gets a smack in the jaw!"

Having delivered his ultimatum, he took a step to go but, remembering the deserted alley, he searched his mind for an uncompromising way to prolong the encounter.

"Well, ain't you got nothin' to say?" challenged Mugsy.

Evidently the boy had not.

"Don't think I'm soft 'cause I ain't beatin' you up right now -- it's only because I do remember you, that's why. But maybe you been away and don't know I got a new name."

The boy on the steps made no comment. Mugsy shifted to the other foot.

"And it you're plannin' to stay around this neighborhood, you better get this straight: I'm the boss of all the kids around here. We got a gang. I'm the boss 'cause I'm the toughest. I can take it."

The boy smiled at the menacing Mugsy. It was a hopeful smile.

"I'd like to be in your gang," he said.

Mugsy spat! "Maybe you ain't tough enough."

The boy reflected on this for a moment. He seemed to be weighing the idea in his mind.

"You gotta be able to take it," continued Mugsy with emphasis. "We got a 'nitiation. If you pass, you're okay. But lots of kids go home bawlin'. It ain't so easy. The gang takes a crack at you; after that, if you ain't hollered 'quits' -- you gotta fight me." Then -- with studied carelessness -- "But it you wanta take a chance, you can come up the alley some time -- "

A truck, backfiring in the street, punctuated the pause in the conversation. The boy on the steps seemed to take refuge in the momentary interlude. Then, almost apologetically:

"I couldn' go in the alley."

Mugsy exploded!

"Oh! The alley's not good enough for you! That's it, huh? You ain't foolin' me none! You're yella!"

"No," continued the boy, "it isn't that. You see -- I can't walk."

For the second time that day, Mugsy felt strangely uncomfortable. He gulped with mingled awe and embarrassment. Becoming suddenly aware of his hands, he tumbled with his cap. He sat down. With an inspirational gesture, he bent over and tied his shoe lace.

"Oh, I don't mind much," the boy went on. "I guess a kid like me has to be able to take it -- too. You see, I was sick for a long time and then I got better, but now it's my legs. They didn't get better. But my father's going to take me to a place called Warm Springs. Lots of people get well there. And when I come back, Mugsy, then I'll meet you in the alley -- and I'll bet I can lick you, too."

Mugsy contemplated the boy as if he were seeing him for the first time. "No kiddin'," he said. And his voice sounded flat and far away -- even to himself.

Later, in the alley, Mugsy saw the gang waiting for him. Through the scattered patches of sunlight, he saw them leaning against the brick walls or draped in doorways. As he approached, not one so much as offered a greeting or changed his position. They expected him to say the first word. It was the rule. He was the boss. Hands again thrust deep in his pockets, shoulders hunched, and floppy cap over his eyes, Mugsy shuffled through without a sign of recognition.

"Hey Mugsy," ventured the biggest kid, "wait a minute. We gotta tell ya. We was hookin' spuds and a cop smacked Frankie on the bean. Honest, he's got a lump that big! It's sumpin' awful!"

Mugsy turned. On his face was an expression the gang had never seen before.

"Go wan," he muttered. "You kids make me sick. Think you're tough . . ."