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“Say, Teacher,” said he, with a wistful glance at his frail little son; “say, you want to lick Issie? Well, you can.”

“Oh, thank you very much, Mr. Diamantstein” returned Miss Bailey, while Isidore, thus bestowed, wept aloud, and required instant soothing. “That’s very good of you, but I hope it won’t be necessary.”

“Well,” said the father generously, “so you want lick, so you can lick.” And so departed.

Miss Bailey’s new responsibility continued to behave beautifully. He was peacefully disposed towards the other boys, who feared and venerated him as a member of the “Clinton Street gang.” He fell promptly captive to the dark and gentle charms of Eva Gonorowsky and to the calm dominion of Teacher. To the latter he showed a loving confidence which she met with a broad-minded tolerance, very wonderful to his eyes in a person of authority. She seemed really to understand the sweet reasonableness of the reminiscences with which he entertained her. And if she sometimes deplored the necessity of so much lying, stealing, fighting and late hours, well so, of late, did he. She asked him quite calmly one day what he had had for breakfast on the morning of his first day in Room 18, and how he had chanced to be so drunk, and he, with true economy, answered two questions with one word:

“Beer.”

“And where,” asked Teacher, still carefully unimpressed “did you get it? From your father?”

“Naw,” said Isidore, whose manners were yet unformed “He don’t never get no beer. He ain’t got a can even.”

“Then where?”

“To the s’loon–“

“And which saloon?” Miss Bailey’s quiet eyes betrayed no trace of her determination that the proprietor should suffer the full penalty of the law. “I thought little boys were not allowed into saloons.”

“Well,” Isidore admitted, “I ain’t gone in the s’loon. I tells the lady on our floor that my papa likes that she should lend her can und she says, ‘He’s welcome, all right.’ Und I gives the can on a man what stands by the s’loon, und I says: ‘My papa he has a sickness, und beer is healthy for him. On’y he couldn’t to come for buy none. You could to take a drink for yourself.’ Und the man says, ‘Sure.’ Und he gets the beer und takes the drink–a awful big drink–und I sets by the curb und drinks what is in the can. It’s awful nice for me.”

Miss Bailey’s hope for any real or lasting moral change in Isidore was sadly shaken by this revelation. Six and a half years old and deliberately plotting and really enjoying a drunken debauch! Surely, the reformatory seemed inevitable. Suddenly she became conscious that the chain of circumstance in Isidore’s recital was not complete.

“But the money,” she asked; “where did you get that?”

Isidore’s eyes were wells of candour as he answered: “Off a lady.”

“And why did she give it to you?”

“‘Cause I tells her my mamma lays on the hospital und I like I should buy her a orange on’y I ain’t got no money for buy none.”

“Oh, Isidore!” cried Teacher, in a voice in which horror, pity, reproach, and wonder mingled. “And you have no mother!” And Isidore’s answer was his professional whine, most heartrending and insincere.

Gradually and carefully Teacher became slightly censorious and mildly didactic, and slowly Isidore Diamantstein came to forsake the paths of evil and to spend long afternoons in the serene and admiring companionship of Morris Mogilewsky, Patrick Brennan and Nathan Spiderwitz. But when, early in December, he found a stranded comic valentine and presented it, blushingly, to Eva Gonorowsky, Miss Bailey found that success was indeed most sweet.

Mr. Diamantstein’s visits to the school, directed with patient futility to the propitiation of the teachers of his older sons, always ended in a cheering little talk with the young ruler of Room 18. To her he confided his history, his difficulties, and his hopes. In return she gave him advice, encouragement, and, in moments of too pressing need, assistance. The need of this kind was, however, rare, for Mr. Diamantstein was an expert in one of the most difficult branches of the tailor’s art, and his salary better than that of many of his fellows.