FullReads

“Yes, I think you’re safe in that. He hasn’t been washed in a month.”

“He’ll be better after you’ve had him awhile,” said Mr. Eissler gallantly. “I back you against Hagenbeck as a taming influence.”

“You flatter me,” laughed Miss Bailey. “But I’ll try. Of course I’ll try.” But she had scant opportunity.

At luncheon time the new little boy departed with the others, and at afternoon session he was not among them, as by law prescribed.

Day after day passed and brought no sign of him. Teacher reported her bereavement to the authorities, and enjoined the First Readers to produce the boy or tidings of him, and although they failed to procure the boy, the tidings were not wanting. They rarely are in East Side affairs. Morris Mowgelewsky was the first to procure definite information.

“I seen that boy,” he announced with pride. “I seen him runnin’ down Scannel Street, und I calls und says you likes you should see him in the school, on’y he runs by a cellar und don’t says nothings. He puts him on just like he was here, und he had awful cold looks. Teacher, he ain’t got no hat, and the snow was coming by his hair. I looks in the cellar und I had a ‘fraid over it the whiles nothings stand in it on’y push-carts und boxes.”

“But do you think that he lives in the cellar?” queried Teacher.

“He don’t lives at all,” replied Morris. “He don’t boards even. He runs all times.”

“Runs?” queried Miss Bailey.

“Teacher, yiss, ma’am, runs. He lays in sleep by barrels; comes somebody, und he runs. He lays in sleep on sidewalks by bak’ry stores where heat and smell comes; comes somebody, und he runs. He lays in sleep by wagons, maybe, maybe by stables where horses is, und straw. All places what he could he lays in sleep, und all places where he lays comes somebody und he runs.”

“What’s he always running from, Morris?”

“Teacher, I dun’no. He ain’t got no ‘fraids. I guess maybe he don’t likes nobody shall make nothings mit him. I tells him how you says he shall come on the school, und what you think? He hits me a hack in mine face, und runs on the cellar.”

“I’d like to see him hit me,” said Patrick Brennan, son of the Policeman on the Beat, a noble scion of a noble sire. “Me pop he wouldn’t stand fer no funny play,” and urged by Miss Bailey’s friendly attitude toward Morris, he boasted, “I’ll bring him to school if ye want me to; I ain’t afraid of him.” And one afternoon some days later he did appear with his “new little friend.”

It had taken six big boys, Patrick, and the janitor to secure his attendance, and he hardly reaped the benefit which so much effort deserved, for, except that he was thinner and in a wildly blazing passion of indignation, his second attendance at Room 18 was much like his first.

Again his studies were interrupted for several days, and it was the Truant Officer who next restored him to the Halls of Learning. Between these two appearances Morris had procured further intelligence.

“That new boy,” he began as always, “that new boy he is in bizzness.”

“So that’s the reason that he fights against school!” cried Teacher, well accustomed to the interference of the sweat shop. “I’m very glad to know his reason for staying away. I was beginning to fear he was not happy here–that he didn’t like us.”

“Teacher, he don’t,” said Morris, with the beautiful candor which adorned all his conversation. “He hates us.”

“But why, why?” demanded Miss Bailey.

“He hates the childrens,” the still candid Morris explained, “the whiles they is Sheenies. He hates you the whiles you is Krisht.”

“Rather an unfriendly attitude altogether,” commented Teacher. “And how do you know he hates me because I’m a Christian?”