Margaurite and her brother Louis were one of those families that just got by. Louis worked at a pier in Brooklyn, loading and unloading ships for a decent salary. Margaurite worked in a factory on the Lower East Side of New York as part of an assembly line. She added gears to various pieces of machienery. What type of machinery? Whatever was on order. She received a salary comprable to her brother's. The two of them lived happily in a boarding house near The Battery.
      Louis was a handsome young man of eighteen. He had fantastically blu eyes and light brown hair. He was tall and lean. Since he loaded and unloaded ships all day, he'd become quite strong and fairly tanned. He loved his sister more than anything, and he'd do anything to protect her. Usually, he was a fairly cheerful fellow, but he was also quite threatening sometimes.
      Usually, when Louis was working, he wore a pair of brown pants, a somewhat grimy undershirt, and a yellow shirt. He also wore a pair of black boots on his feet. His sleeves were usually rolled up past his elbows as he worked.
      Margaurite was a lovely young woman of nearly seventeen. She had strikingly green eyes and beautiful, long, silken dark brown hair. Generally, she wore her hair up, the fashion of the era. There were always little wisps of hair that fell loose. She wore a blue skirt and a gray shirt most of the time. She had black pumps on her feet and a white rose engraved into an oval amber stone pendant on a silver chain. Her skinwas soft, neither tan nor pale. She always had grease on her fingers or her cheek and under her fingers, too. Somehow, the grease always accented her eyes. Her eyes were always bright, and they sparkled with joy. The boys at the factory and on the street seemed to take to her quickly. She was smart and good at what she did. The boys liked that.
      Louis and Margaurite were truly an original pair. Their love for each other was stronger than anything. Each would do whatever was needed to help the other. Since they had been abandoned at a young age in Rouen in France, they'd becomevery close. When Louis was ten, he'd brought his sister to a pier with all their belongings, and they stowed away on a ship heading for America.
      They learned the language quickly upon their arrival, finding jobs that didin't require them to speak too much. After they'd learned the language, they found new and beter jobs. Now, after several long years in America, the two siblings lived happily in New York City, the island of Manhattan to be precise.
      One evening as Margaurite was walking home, she noticed a group of five or six boys socializing on a street corner. She had a small streak of grease across her left cheek, and her hair was slightly disheveled. She watched the boys out of the corner of her eye as she walked past them. She pulled the small box she carried closer to her chest and quickened her step as she did so.
      One of the boys trotted up to her. "'Scuse me, miss," he began, removing his hat, "but, d'ya know da time?"
      Margaurite's heart raced as she hesitated in her step. She turned to face the boy. "Not precisely, no," she answered with a thick French accent.
      "Say, where you'se from?" he wondered.
      "France," she answered meakly.
      "France, really? I hoid 'bout dat place, Dey's real fashion-like ovah dere," he commented. Margaurite glanced away for a second. "Anyway. Ya don't know what time it is?" he asked again.
      "C'estÐ Uh, pardon" she began in French. She still wasn't very good with English. "It's after seven," she concluded in English.
      The boy studied her for a moment. "Da name's Racetrack Higgins. If yer evah at da race track, look fer me. I'se'd be glad ta give ya a hot tip er two," he commented.
      "Margaurite de Rouen. Bon soir, Racetrack 'iggins," she replied, nodding politely to him and continuing on her way.
      "Hey, thanks, Meg!" Racetrack called after her.
      Margaurite looked over her shoulder at Racetrack as she walked. She'd never been called Meg before. She shrugged and continued home. As she arrived at the bording house, she could hear a loud voice yelling something. She opened the door and entered. She ascendedthe stairs, and the voice grew louder.
      "Bon soir, Monsieur Sullivan," she called loudly as she passed the apartment.
      The yelling stopped, and the door to the apartment opened. A small man peered out. "Evenin', Margaurite," he called up to her, his temper subsiding.
      "How is your wife ce soir, Monsieur?" she inquired, pausing on the landing.
      "Oh, she's a gem, Margaurite," Mr. Sullivan answered with a smile.
      "C'est bon, Monsieur. Bon soir," she replied in a sweet voice. She smiled and continued up to the top floor, her room.
      "Good evenin', Margaurite," Mr. Sullivan called after her.
      Margaurite smiled and entered her apartment. "Bon soir, Louis," she greeted as she shut the door behind her.
      "Allo, Margaurite," Louis answeredsadly. He sat at the desk in the corner, his shoulders slumped and two empty bottles of whiskey in front of him.
      Margaurite approached her brother, dropping the box on her bed as she did so. "Louis! Qu'est-ce que tu as fait?!" she demanded, slamming her hand down on the desk (Margaurite and Louis continued to speak to each other in French, but, for the benefit of our readers, their words will be henceforth translated into English). Margaurite had asked her brother what he was doing.
      "I lost my job today, Margaurite," he answered, not looking at her.
      "Louis, all you do is load and unload ships all day. What'd you do? Did you drop somebody's property in the harbor?"
      Louis didn't answer.
      "That's it, isn't it. Whose property was it? Vanderbilt's? Morgan's? Whose, Louis?"
      "I don't know, Margaurite. I only know that I was carrying a crate down the gangway. I tripped and fell. The crate went into the river, and I dangled off the gangway. They pulled me up and fired me."
      Margaurite sighed deeply. "You'll look for a new job tomorrowÐ"
      "Margaurite!"
      "You'll look for a new job. Good night, Louis."
      "Margaurite," he whined.
      "Good night," she stated briskly. She changed and went to sleep without another word to her brother.
      Louis just sat at the desk. He didn't move all night, except for letting his head slam down on the table.

      In the morning, Margaurite awoke to see her brother in a drunken sleep. She shook her head and dressed quickly. She hid the box she'd been carrying the night before in her trunk. She grabbed her ratty old shawl ans scurried out of the room. Once in the street, she began running toward Brooklyn.
      In Brooklyn, she found the pier where louis worked fairly easily. She walked onto the pier in search of the forman. She addressed one of the workers. "Pardon, monsieur," she began.
      The man looked up at her. "What kin I do fer ya, sweet-face?" he asked with a smirk.
      "Would you happen to know where ze forman is?" she asked, concentrating on her English.
      "Yeah, shoah thing. He's right ovah dere. Da fella wit' da cigaw," he answered, pointing toward a man smoking a cigar down the pier.
      Margaurite nodded her thanks and approached the forman. "Pardon, monsieur forman," she started.
      The forman turned around and looked at her, judging her. "What kin I do fer ya, miss?" the forman asked, removing the cigar from his mouth to speak.
      "My bruzzer, Louis de Rouen, used to work here. Could you tell me vhy he vas fired?" she asked.
      "You'se Margaret, ain't cha?" the forman asked with a nod and a smile. Margaurite shrugged and nodded. "Lew tawks 'bout cha awmost non-stop. He's real proud ta have ya as 'is sistah."
      "Merci, monsieur. Please, vhy vas louis fired?"
      "Well, Margaret, Lew hasn't been doin' too good da las' few weeks. He's beenreal distent lately. I tol' 'im las' week dat if 'e didn't straighten up, I'd hafta let 'im go. He straightened up fer a day er two. Den 'e went back ta 'is ol' ways. I'se sorry, Margaret, but I had ta fire 'im. He wasn't workin as well as 'e used ta."
      "He didn'tdrop a crate in ze harbor?"
      "Heavens no! Who tol' ja dat?!"
      "Louis."
      "He lied ta 'is sistah. I wouldn't wanna be in his shoes 'bout now."
      "Pas moi aussi," she mumbled (nor I). "Merci, monsieur forman. Au revoir," she added and began walking back to the street, mumbling several angry words in French.
      A boy grabbed her elbow as she neared the street. "Whoa, whoa, whoa, sweet-face," the boy commented, pulling her to a stop.
      Margaurite turned to face the boy. "Pardon?" she inquired, looking at him, a little confused.
      "It ain't good ta go walkin' 'round Brooklyn angry, miss," the boy explained.
      Margaurite just blinked. She couldn't find her English. When she finally did, she spoke. "I apologize, monsieur. My bruzzer, he.. he angers me," she replied.
      "Hey, I din't ask why ya's angry. I jist said dat it ain't good ta go 'round Brooklyn all angry-like. You'se too perdy ta be angry," the boy commented.
      "MerÐ Uh, thank you, monsieur. My nameis Margaurite de Rouen," she introduced, nodding politely.
      "Margret, huh?" he greeted.
      "Non, Margaurite," she corrected.
      "Like I said, MargretÐ"
      "Non, Margaurite. Pas Margret. Margaurite, zat is my name. Margret, zat is not my name," she explained.
      "Kin I call ya Maggie?"
      "Non."
      "Meg?"
      Margaurite looked at him for a moment. He was a handsome young man of about sixteen. He had sandy-blong hair hidden under a silvery-blue cap. His eyes were gray with little flecks of blue. They were kind eyes that had seen a good deal of hardship. He was taller than Margaurite by a few inches. He also looked strong and faily thin. He seemed nice enough to her.
      "Oui," she replied with a nod and a smile.
      "Well, Meg, da name's Spot Conlon. Nice ta met cha," he greeted, offering her his hand.
      "Enchanté," she greeted, shaking his hand and inclining her head politely.
      "What's dat mean anyway? All dose rich folks say it. What's it mean?" he asked.
      "It means..." she trailed off, thinking of the translation. She hesitated. "I don't know ze vord en Anglais," she explained.
      Spot just blinked and looked at her. He didn't know what to say. Margaurite decidede to explain before he became any more confused.
      "You see, I live in America zese seven years. I picked up ze language here and zere. It's a.. difficult language. I still don't know every vord. I sink enchanté would mean what you said before. You say it was nice to meet me. It meanszesame," she explained, choosing her words.
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