His Family

He was thinking of the town he had known. Not of old New York⁠—he had heard of that from old, old men when he himself had still been young and had smiled at their garrulity. He was thinking of a young New York, the mighty throbbing city to which he had come long ago as a lad from the New Hampshire mountains. A place of turbulent thoroughfares, of shouting drivers, hurrying crowds, the crack of whips and the clatter of wheels; an uproarious, thrilling town of enterprise, adventure, youth; a city of pulsing energies, the center of a boundless land; a port of commerce with all the world, of stately ships with snowy sails; a fascinating pleasure town, with throngs of eager travellers hurrying from the ferry boats and rolling off in hansom cabs to the huge hotels on Madison Square. A city where American faces were still to be seen upon all its streets, a cleaner and a kindlier town, with more courtesy in its life, less of the vulgar scramble. A city of houses, separate homes, of quiet streets with rustling trees, with people on the doorsteps upon warm summer evenings and groups of youngsters singing as they came trooping by in the dark. A place of music and romance. At the old opera house downtown, on those dazzling evenings when as a boy he had ushered there for the sake of hearing the music, how the rich joy of being alive, of being young, of being loved, had shone out of women’s eyes. Shimmering satins, dainty gloves and little jewelled slippers, shapely arms and shoulders, vivacious movements, nods and smiles, swift glances, ripples, bursts of laughter, an exciting hum of voices. Then silence, sudden darkness⁠—and music, and the curtain. The great wide curtain slowly rising.⁠ ⁠…

On the next evening, Saturday, while Roger ate his dinner, Laura came to sit with him. She herself was dining out. That she should have dressed so early in order to keep him company had caused her father some surprise, and a faint suspicion entered his mind that she had overdrawn at the bank, as she had the last time she sat with him like this. Her manner certainly was a bit strange.

But Roger put the thought aside. Whatever she wanted, Laura was worth it. In a tingling fashion he felt what a glorious time she was having, what a gorgeous town she knew. It was difficult to realize she was his own daughter, this dashing stranger sitting here, playing idly with a knife and caressing him with her voice and her eyes. The blue evening gown she was wearing tonight (doubtless not yet paid for) made her figure even more supple and lithe, set off her splendid bosom, her slender neck, her creamy skin. Her hair, worn low over her temples, was brown with just a tinge of red. Her eyes were black, with gleaming lights; her lips were warm and rich, alive. He did not approve of her lips. Once when she had kissed him Roger had started slightly back. For his daughter’s lips were rouged, and they had reminded him of his youth. He had asked her sister to speak to her. But Deborah had told him she did not care to speak to people in that way⁠—“especially women⁠—especially sisters,” she had said, with a quiet smile. All very well, he reflected, but somebody ought to take Laura in hand.

“This is the trouble,” she began. “Down in my school we’ve a family of about three thousand children. A few I get to know so well I try to follow them when they leave. And one of these, an Italian boy⁠—his name is Joe Bolini⁠—was one of the best I ever had, and one of the most appealing. But Joe took to drinking and got in with a gang of boys who blackmailed small shopkeepers. He used to come to me at times in occasional moods of repentance. He was a splendid physical type and he’d been a leader in our athletics, so I took him back into the school to manage our teams in basketball. He left the gang and stopped drinking, and we had long talks together about his great ambition. He wanted to enter the Fire Department as soon as he was twenty-one. And I promised to use my influence.” She stopped, still frowning slightly.

“What happened?” Roger asked her.

“His girl took up with another man, and Joe has hot Italian blood. He got drunk one night and⁠—shot them both.” There was another silence. “I did what I could,” she said harshly, “but he had a bad record behind him, and the young assistant district attorney had his own record to think of, too. So Joe got a death sentence. We appealed the case but it did no good. He was sent up the river and is in the death house now⁠—and he sent for me to come today. His letter hinted he was scared, he wrote that his priest was no good to him. So I went up this afternoon. Joe goes to the chair tomorrow at six.”

Deborah went to the sofa and sat down inertly. Roger remained motionless, and a dull chill crept over him.

“Who’s he?”

“Isadore Freedom,” said Deborah, “is the beginning of something tremendous. He came from Russian Poland⁠—and the first American word he learned over there was ‘freedom.’ So in New York he changed his name to that⁠—very solemnly, by due process of law. It cost him seven dollars. He had nine dollars at the time. Isadore is a flame, a kind of a torch in the wilderness.”

“How does the flame earn his living?”

“At first in a sweatshop,” she replied. “But he came to my school five nights a week, and at ten o’clock when school was out he went to a little basement café, where he sat at a corner table, drank one glass of Russian tea and studied till they closed at one. Then he went to his room, he told me, and used to read himself to sleep. He slept as a rule four hours. He said he felt he needed it. Now he’s a librarian earning fifteen dollars a week, and having all the money he needs he has put the thought of it out of his life and is living for education⁠—education in freedom. For Isadore has studied his name until he thinks he knows what it means.”

They found him in a small public library on an ill-smelling ghetto street. The place had been packed with people, but the clock had just struck ten and the readers were leaving reluctantly, many with books under their arms.

“Fellers,” was the answer. “Fellers. Human nature. Here’s a letter from Shifty Sam.”

“Who the devil is he? A friend of yours?”

“No,” said John, “he’s a con man. He works about as mean a graft as any you ever heard of. He reads the ads in the papers⁠—see?⁠—of servant girls who’re looking for work. He makes a specialty of cooks. Then he goes to where they live and talks of some nice family that wants a servant right away. He claims to be the butler, and he’s dressed to look the part. ‘There ain’t a minute to lose,’ he says. ‘If you want a chawnce, my girl, come quick.’ He says ‘chawnce’ like a butler⁠—see? ‘Pack your things,’ he tells her, ‘and come right along with me.’ So she packs and hustles off with him⁠—Sam carrying her suit case. He puts her on a trolley and says, ‘I guess I’ll stay on the platform. I’ve got a bit of a headache and the air will do me good.’ So he stays out there with her suit case⁠—and as soon as the car gets into a crowd, Sam jumps and beats it with her clothes.”

“I see,” said Roger dryly. “But what’s he writing you about?”

“Oh, it ain’t me he’s writing to⁠—it’s you,” was John’s serene reply. Roger started.

“What?” he asked.

“Well,” said the boy in a cautious tone, vigilantly eyeing his chief, “you see, a lot of these fellers like Sam have been in the papers lately. They’re being called a crime wave.”