"JUST FOLKS" 
 
THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 
 
 NEW YORK • BOSTON • CHICAGO 
 -ATLANTA ■ SAN FRANCISCO 
 
 MACMILLAN & CO., Limited 
 
 LONDON • BOMBAY ■ CALCUTTA 
 MELBOURNE 
 
 THE MACMILLAN CO. OF CANADA, Ltd. 
 
 TORONTO 
 
64 
 
 JUST FOLKS" 
 
 BY 
 
 CLARA E. LAUGHLIN 
 
 AUTHOR OF " FELICITY," " EVERYBODY 'S LONESOME, 11 " THE 
 EVOLUTION OF A GIRL^ IDEAL, 11 ETC., ETC. 
 
 " Problem ? " said Liza Allen. " Shucks ! Folks 
 ain't no problem if you really know 'em — they're 
 just folks^ 
 
 • » * 
 » » • • 
 
 Nefo gork 
 THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 
 
 1910 
 
 All rights reserved 
 
Copyright by 
 
 S. S. McCLURE COMPANY, 
 
 1907, 1908, 1910. 
 
 AINSLIE'S MAGAZINE, 1909. 
 
 Copyright, 1910, 
 By THE MACMILLAN COMPANY. 
 
 Set up and electrotyped. Published October, 1910. 
 
 Norfooob tyttzt 
 
 J. 8. Cushing Co. — Berwick & Smith Co. 
 
 Norwood, Mass., U.S.A. 
 
TO 
 THE RADIANT MEMORY OF 
 
 ELIZABETH B. BROWNELL 
 
 912908 
 
JUST FOLKS 
 
 On her way over from the Juvenile Court 
 Building, on Ewing Street east of Halsted, Beth 
 Tully stopped at the arched entrance to Hull 
 House quadrangle and looked in ; then, drawn 
 by a beauty which never failed to thrill her, she 
 passed into the court and stood gazing about 
 her. Little Beth, who with all her appealing 
 femininity had certain boyish graces and sundry 
 boyish gifts, could have thrown a stone through 
 that archway and hit a clattering wagon or clang- 
 ing car passing on Halsted Street ; yet one felt 
 many miles aloof from Halsted Street in this 
 lovely spot suggestive of some ancient close or 
 cloister from the far world overseas. The gray 
 stone terrace outside the residents' dining-hall 
 was as grateful to beauty-starved senses as a 
 bit of Italy ; and everything in the quadrangle 
 was full of peace. 
 
 Beth thought wistfully, for a moment, of that 
 dining-hall with its beautiful, restful dimensions, 
 its peculiarly lovely paper of cool, pale gray, its 
 rich, dark woodwork and furniture, its bright 
 
2 JUST FOLKS 
 
 spots of shining copper and brass, its great open 
 fireplace and huge chimney. She had dined 
 at those long tables of mahogany whereat the 
 residents sat and where there were always guests, 
 famous and otherwise ; and she had delighted 
 in the beauty of the surroundings, and in the 
 clever conversation she heard on a hundred sub- 
 jects close to her heart. It was like the refec- 
 tory of some ancient hospice, that dining-hall : 
 there gathered the brotherhood consecrate to 
 the succor of perishing mankind ; there they ate 
 and drank and talked of the world outside ; 
 there they entertained the travelling brother 
 from other hospice or monastery ; thence they 
 emerged, on call from without or inner urging, 
 to minister to the needy round about ; and 
 thither they returned from ministering, to sit 
 again around the shining tables of the refectory, 
 while good cheer passed and passed again, and 
 the ruddy firelight played on burnished copper 
 and brass. 
 
 Beth looked up at the apartments which line 
 three sides of this court, and swift mental pic- 
 tures came to her of the comfort, the refinement, 
 the charm that was in this apartment and in that, 
 and that. Residents who were able to take 
 long leases had had a hand in the designing of 
 the apartment they were to occupy; and even 
 where choice had not gone so far as this, delight- 
 ful individuality was expressed and perfect 
 
JUST FOLKS 3 
 
 adaptation of surroundings to needs was attained 
 in the furnishings. Of course, Beth reminded 
 herself, she could never have afforded an apart- 
 ment, if she had come to Hull House. Suppos- 
 ing she had applied for admission as a resident 
 and had been accepted, she could only have been 
 of those who have a single room in the quarter 
 for women ; not hers, by any chance, an ingle- 
 nook in a book-lined room whose dormer win- 
 dows overlooked the peace-inspiring close ; not 
 hers the pleasure of receiving charming friends 
 in a long living-room rich in artistic trophies 
 from a dozen lands ; not hers the girlish fun of a 
 perfectly appointed kitchenette whereat to con- 
 coct toothsome things not on the bill of fare in 
 the great dining-hall ; not hers the luxury of 
 lying down to sleep, nights, in a quaintly pretty 
 chamber, and rising to step into a bathroom all 
 chastely white with marble and with porcelain. 
 A salary of #75 a month is never adequate to 
 things like this, especially when one must put 
 by a little in case of accident or illness, and 
 " another little" to send a bit of luxury home 
 now and then ; and most especially when one's 
 work is such that never a day passes in which 
 there's no urgent tugging at one's heartstrings 
 — so urgent that it's not always possible to keep 
 one's purse-strings tied. 
 
 But more than compulsory economy made 
 little Beth decide Hull House was not for her. 
 
4 JUST FOLKS 
 
 She was a probation officer of the Juvenile 
 Court, this tiny sprite of a fair-haired girl with 
 her direct, earnest ways and the sublime sense of 
 humor which, her dear father had been wont 
 to say, "threatened to make her great." And 
 she had reasoned out for herself that not at Hull 
 House, where those far cleverer than she discussed 
 the poor as a theorem or worked with the poor 
 as a class, in a large, systematic way, could she 
 come to such knowledge of the poor as she sought. 
 She meant to keep in touch with the splendid 
 institution ; to avail herself of many of its privi- 
 leges besides the coffee house, where she would 
 probably take most of her meals ; to use its 
 benefits freely, not only for herself, but for the 
 boys and girls committed by the court to her care. 
 But she knew the attitude of the Nineteenth 
 Ward toward what it regarded as the professional 
 benevolence of the Settlement ; and she felt 
 that the air of professionalism with which her 
 calling surrounded her — the children called 
 her "de p'leece lady" — was more than sufficient 
 barrier between her and the human nature of her 
 charges. So she was determined to level it as 
 much as she could by following out a plan of her 
 own. 
 
 She had not said a great deal about that plan 
 in her letters home ; "the little mother" would 
 never have understood, and would have worried 
 herself sick. She had small enough idea at best, 
 
JUST FOLKS 5 
 
 that little mother, of what her Beth did as a pro- 
 bation officer. Beth wrote about the boys com- 
 ing to report to her, and the little mother thought 
 of Beth as sitting in judicial state, somewhere, 
 "like her dear father" — Beth's father had been 
 a judge — and the only worry that harassed 
 the mother's heart was lest some of the boys 
 come from infected homes and Beth might "catch 
 something." What she would have thought 
 if she had known how Beth went about those 
 homes, Beth did not dare to imagine. And 
 what she would have suffered if she had known 
 Beth was planning to live in one of them, was 
 best kept out of mind. For there was opposition 
 enough to encounter in Hart Ferris, who was 
 determined to marry Beth, some day when his 
 present job as a reporter had been succeeded by 
 an editorship and his salary had increased in pro- 
 portion ; and whom Beth meant probably to 
 marry some day when her intense interest in other 
 people's homes and lives and loves had waned 
 sufficiently to permit her to care exclusively, for 
 a while at least, about a home and life and love of 
 her own. It wasn't that she loved Hart less, 
 but that she loved humanity in the aggregate 
 more. And Hart Ferris was accepting, since he 
 must, this attitude and biding his time with no 
 more patience than a fair masculine allowance. 
 But he never neglected any possible opportunity 
 to protest, and with all his might and all his 
 
6 JUST FOLKS 
 
 power he had opposed Beth's plan to live in the 
 Ghetto. 
 
 "It's bad enough to have you fussing around 
 the slums all day, without having you eat and 
 sleep there too," he had cried, angrily. 
 
 Little Beth, who had known he would say just 
 exactly this, opened her blue eyes wide as if in 
 pained astonishment. 
 
 " Why, Hart Ferris ! It was you who first took 
 me to the Juvenile Court and interested me in 
 probation officers ; you who talked to me so 
 glowingly about the system and what it was doing 
 for the children, that I could never get the dream 
 of sharing in it out my mind. You talked then 
 as if you admired the work ! " 
 
 "So I do now — for other girls!" he had 
 answered. Whereupon Beth had called him a 
 "primitive male person" and endeavored to 
 show him his startling likeness to a "cave man." 
 
 She was in no wise deterred by his opposition, 
 but she was not one of those martyr souls whose 
 happiness increases as her way grows hard ; so 
 she said little more to him about her intentions, 
 and nothing at all to any one else. But here she 
 was, after Court, on a sunny afternoon in March 
 looking for a place to live. 
 
 In none of the homes where her work had called 
 her could she think of asking either for a room 
 or for direction to some one with a room to rent. 
 So she was trying, first of all possible ways, the 
 
JUST FOLKS 7 
 
 way of looking for the least objectionable streets 
 and the decentest houses on those streets, hoping 
 in the windows of some of those houses to see 
 the sign, Rooms for Rent. 
 
 This afternoon as she left the Hull House 
 close, and walked west (she knew of no place 
 east of Halsted that was at all possible) she 
 found herself — without any particular inten- 
 tion or design of which she was conscious — try- 
 ing Maxwell Street ; perhaps the near proximity 
 of the police station gave her a sense of protection, 
 as if no really desperate-intentioned folk would 
 live close beneath its shadow. At any rate, 
 she steered her course through the hordes of 
 children playing on the sidewalks, as resolutely 
 as if she knew where she was going. And 
 presently her searching eye caught sight of the 
 desired sign on the door of a decent-looking, three- 
 story house whose ground floor was occupied by 
 a grocery and, behind the store, the dwelling 
 quarters of the grocer, Monahan. Close be- 
 side the grocery, whose stock seemed so to over- 
 run the sidewalk that the store was only a for- 
 mality, was the door bearing the sign, beneath 
 which was scrawled in pencil : 3 floor front. 
 Another sign on the door said : Fashionable 
 Dressmaking. Liza Allen. 3 floor front ; and 
 below it was tacked — just out of reach of 
 childish fingers unless the children climbed to 
 get it — a colored fashion plate from a popular- 
 
8 JUST FOLKS 
 
 priced magazine. The plate showed a lady of ex- 
 traordinary attenuation, semi-attired in an Em- 
 pire evening gown of pink. Beth looked from it 
 to the women in the street ; most of them were 
 Jewish, and shapeless with fat, and the relation 
 of their figures to that of the lady in the plate, 
 of their black wigs to the lady's elaborate blonde 
 coiffure, of their wrappers and sacks to her Em- 
 pire attire, appealed irresistibly to Beth's sense 
 of humor. She wanted to see how Liza Allen 
 looked, and how she regarded her "fashionable 
 dressmaking," and who patronized her in this 
 community. So she opened the door and stood 
 for a moment in the little pocket-size hallway 
 before starting up the straight, steep, dark stairs. 
 The house was of a familiar type, two tenants 
 on each floor and four rooms constituting each 
 tenement. The kitchens were in the middle of 
 the house and off each kitchen was a tiny bed- 
 room. The "front room" of the rear dwellers 
 overlooked the back yard, the alley, and the 
 backs of houses on the next street ; and off it 
 was a small bedroom. The front room of the 
 other tenants on each floor was over the grocery 
 and overlooked Maxwell Street ; and off it was 
 a small bedroom. Beth had come to know this 
 arrangement well; and the number of doors 
 which confronted her in these dark hallways 
 and bore testimony to the wisdom of the archi- 
 tect in the ways of sub-letting, never "fazed" her. 
 
JUST FOLKS 9 
 
 She climbed the second stairway now, feeling 
 her way rather than seeing it and, not without 
 some pride in her growing sense of discrimination, 
 knocked, not on the kitchen but on the front 
 room door of Liza Allen's apartment. 
 
 The] whir of the sewing-machine stopped for 
 a moment, and a woman's voice called, "Come 
 in!" Beth opened the door. An old woman, 
 with snow-white hair parted in the middle and 
 "crimped," pushed her steel-rimmed spectacles 
 up on her forehead and regarded Beth sociably. 
 
 " 'Scuse me fer not gettin' up," she said, 
 "but it's such a bother droppin' things an' then 
 havin' t' hunt 'em all over when you set down 
 agin." 
 
 "I know," Beth answered ; "your thimble and 
 your needle and your scissors and your work — 
 seems as if they were bewitched, sometimes, 
 doesn't it ? And how mad it makes you to drop 
 them all for nothing !" 
 
 Liza nodded appreciatively ; evidently this 
 young woman was a person of understanding. 
 "Beats all!" she confided, "what some folks'll 
 call a busy woman from her work fer. But of 
 course fer a customer — " 
 
 "I'm not a customer," Beth interposed. She 
 had noted the wrapper of cheap calico Liza Allen 
 was making, but she let no glint of her amuse- 
 ment escape her. "I'm looking for a room." 
 
 "Well now !" said Liza, "you set down an' I'll 
 
io JUST FOLKS 
 
 tell you 'bout mine. You're mighty fortunate 
 to come along right now ; it ain't been vacant 
 but a few days, and it always gits snapped up 
 quick after I put the sign out." 
 
 And such was the contagion of Liza's pride 
 that Beth, even before she had seen the room 
 with its washstand "chiny," its stiffly starched 
 Nottingham curtains, and its two pictures — " A 
 Yard of Pansies" and " Alone," issued by a Sun- 
 day paper as colored supplements and cheaply 
 framed by a neighborhood emporium as premi- 
 ums — was grateful for the happy chance which 
 brought her here so opportunely. 
 
 TJie room, when shown, might have seemed to 
 some scarcely worthy Liza's complacency. But 
 by the time Beth saw it, she was so captivated 
 by Liza herself that she was determined to have 
 the room ; nor was weakened in her determina- 
 tion when the lumpy little mattress on the single 
 iron bed showed itself to be thinner than she had 
 ever supposed a mattress could be, and the room 
 was discovered to be as guiltless of closet or of 
 bureau as of heat or other light than that of 
 a small glass lamp. 
 
 Nevertheless, she hastened to pay her " dollar 
 down, against the rent " — which was two dollars 
 a week — and to make her arrangements about 
 moving in. 
 
 "I ain't never let to no woman before," said 
 Liza Allen — and Beth's heart sank lest Liza be 
 
JUST FOLKS ii 
 
 repentant of her bargain — "fer they're always 
 mussin' 'round and interferin' with yer business. 
 But I guess you'll be all right — " 
 
 "I'll eat my meals at Hull House," Beth has- 
 tened to plead in her own extenuation, " and send 
 all my washing out." 
 
 "Oh, pshaw ! no you won't neither," Liza inter- 
 posed. "You're welcome t' cook yer meals on my 
 stove, an' it won't be any extry expense t' you. 
 The fire's got t' be there, an' it might's well serve 
 two. Goodness, no ! don't thank me. What's 
 the use o' livin' if you can't do that much fer a 
 fella- woman ?" 
 
 After she left Liza Allen's, Beth reflected, with 
 amusement at her own expense, how she had sup- 
 posed her quest for a room in that neighbor- 
 hood would excite curious interest ; how she 
 would be questioned as to her motives ; and 
 what a discreet little story she would have to tell. 
 But while Liza Allen seemed to have the live- 
 liest interest in her new tenant's future as in- 
 sured by that "A I room," she showed no interest 
 at all in her past or how or why she came there. 
 The condescension which Beth had felt, though 
 she meant valiantly to conceal it, had transferred 
 itself to Liza ; and it was with a feeling of "get- 
 ting in," not one of "coming in," that Beth 
 entered the Ghetto as a resident. 
 
 She moved next day. It was a simple moving 
 — just a steamer trunk, which would fit under 
 
12 JUST FOLKS 
 
 the bed, and a small valise. In the trunk 
 were a few girlish knickknacks with which Beth 
 hoped ultimately to make her new little room 
 seem more truly her own place. But she knew 
 she would have to be tactful about introducing 
 these into what Liza considered a chamber 
 already sufficiently elegant for any mortal use. 
 
 Liza made dresses for a dollar ; wrappers for 
 fifty cents. And she had to sew without ceas- 
 ing, it seemed. Beth wondered a little, because 
 Liza had told her the rent of the four rooms was 
 ten dollars a month, and the income from the 
 front bedroom was nearly nine. Still, it doubt- 
 less took a great deal of sewing at those modest 
 prices to buy coal and kerosene and the bit of 
 food a lonely old body would eat. On that 
 point, however, as on many others, she was 
 destined soon to be enlightened. 
 
 It was dusk when she had her few things un- 
 packed, and she was tired. She had been up 
 late the night before, packing ; and afterwards 
 she had, in her excitement, slept but fitfully. 
 Then there was the day's work, and the move into 
 new quarters. She felt little enough like going 
 over to Hull House restaurant for her supper. 
 
 Liza was still sewing, by the light of a lamp 
 set on her machine. 
 
 "I believe I'll go out and buy a bit of some- 
 thing," Beth said to her. "Can I get anything 
 for you ?" 
 
JUST FOLKS 13 
 
 Liza gave her order. When Beth got back, 
 Liza was still bent over her work ; so Beth cooked 
 both suppers. And after supper she "cleared 
 up." Then, strangely without any surprise to 
 herself, she began threading needles for Liza 
 while that indefatigable woman strained her poor 
 old eyes to do "finishing" by the feeble lamp- 
 light. 
 
 Then, quite naturally, the story of Liza's 
 industry came out. Without lifting her head 
 from the steady stitch, stitch, she told about 
 her debt and — without meaning to — about 
 herself. 
 
 "No, I ain't never been married," she said. 
 Beth had not asked her ; the subject was of her 
 own introduction. "But I was mighty near it 
 once ; and goodness knows I always had beaus 
 a-plenty ! But there was Joe — my brother. 
 He was that gifted, you wouldn't believe ! but 
 seems like somehow he couldn't never git on. 
 The others married off, an' bimeby there was only 
 Joe an' me left in the old home, back in Ohio, 
 an' I was actually gittin' ready at last to marry 
 Adam Spear that I'd kep' comp'ny with for 
 thirteen years. The weddin' day was set an' 
 the weddin' clo's was made — didn't seem, when 
 I was sewin' on 'em, that it could be true they 
 was mine an' not some other bride's like they'd 
 always been before — when we found that Joe 
 had got hisself into a peck o' trouble 'bout some 
 
14 JUST FOLKS 
 
 money he'd borrowed, signin' somethin' ; an' 
 't seems," Liza went on without reproachfulness, 
 "like he'd kind o' signed my name too. An' 
 'stid o' leavin' Joe all hunky-dory on his own 
 little place an' him payin' me off fer my share 
 like we'd laid out he would, so's Adam an' me 
 could git a good start, there wasn't nothin' fer 
 him ner me ! Course I couldn't leave Joe like 
 that — him never bein' one t^o take responsibil- 
 ity fer himself. An' Adam got put out with me 
 an' said if I cared so much more fer Joe I could 
 have him good an' plenty. So Adam he sold out 
 his little business — he was a carpenter — and 
 went away. No, I never see him again. An' 
 Joe an' me, we had pretty hard sleddin' there 
 fer a while, till bimeby Joe got a notion that we'd 
 never git along there and ought to come here t' 
 Chicago where a man that was gifted could git 
 some notice took of him. So we come. Land ! 
 that was in '70. We took what the place'd 
 bring, sellin' it quick like that — Joe alius 
 was one to do a thing quick when he got the 
 notion — an' after we'd paid off the rest o' the 
 debt we come here an' bought a little store where 
 we sold newspapers and tobacco and stationery. 
 An' — beats all! — if the Big Fire didn't come 
 along 'fore we was hardly settled, an' wipe us 
 clean off the map. After that, Joe he got dis- 
 couraged an' seemed like he never could git 
 started agin. An' then he — you know how 'tis 
 
JUST FOLKS 15 
 
 with men when they get that way — he got the 
 failin', an' first thing I know he got took to the 
 County one night with both his poor legs cut off 
 by a train. After that it was all off with him. I 
 got him some peg-legs — they was real expensive, 
 too — but he never took to 'em. So he'd jest 
 set here — poor Joe would — an' watch me sew, 
 an' worry for fear he wouldn't be buried like a 
 gentleman. 'Now don't you goon like that,' I'd 
 tell him ; 'am I the one to see you buried cheap ? 
 you that have always had such high ambitions !' 
 An' then he'd cheer up an' tell me how he wanted 
 things done — at the last, you know. I never 
 see a man so partikler about his fun'ral as Joe 
 was. But he had to wait a long time for it, 
 poor fella ! Seventeen years he set an' thought 
 about it, afore it come to pass. An' the last 
 couple o' years he was awful ailin' — had the 
 doctor every week, almost, an' more med'cine 
 than'd kill a camel, you'd think. But when he 
 come to go he seemed real pleased, thinkin' 
 about his fun'ral. 'Tuberoses, Lizy' he'd say. 
 'You remember ? An' white pinks — in a pilla — 
 with "Brother" on it — in everlastin's.' An' 
 the las' day — we could be pretty sure it was the 
 last, he was failin' so rapid — he'd keep mur- 
 murin' 'bout the everlastin's, an' finally he sighed, 
 an' I says, 'What is it, Joe ?' an' he says, awful 
 wishful, ' 'f I could on'y see 'em ! ' — meanin' 
 the flowers. An' thinks I, 'Why not ?' an' puts 
 
16 JUST FOLKS 
 
 on my shawl an' goes over t' Blue Island an' had 
 the pilla made." 
 
 Beth almost gasped. 
 
 "An' you never see any one so pleased," Liza 
 went on, lifting a corner of her apron to wipe 
 her eyes. "O' course the pilla was some faded 
 by the fun'ral time, but I figgered there wasn't 
 no one there that cared so much about it as Joe 
 had." 
 
 There was sympathetic silence for a moment. 
 Then : "It was as handsome a fun'ral, though, 
 as I ever lay eyes on. Poor Joe ! he deserved it. 
 You wouldn't believe, jes' knowin' me, what a 
 gifted man he was. But, My Country ! 'tain't 
 all paid off yet — that fun'ral !" 
 
 There was no self-pity in this last admission 
 — indeed no ! rather was it full of pride ; and the 
 needle, which had been faltering a little, moved 
 in and out more briskly, as if spurred by the con- 
 sciousness that it was able to afford Liza so hand- 
 some a debt. 
 
 Beth had often deplored the extravagant 
 funerals of the poor, but it dawned upon her as 
 Liza talked that there may be more than one 
 standard of economy, more than one rule to 
 determine what is worth while. 
 
 Time was — and that only a very little while 
 ago — when she would have felt impelled to help 
 lift the weight of debt from Liza's shoulders, to 
 try to atone to her for all she had foregone. But 
 
JUST FOLKS 17 
 
 tonight ! Even after this so brief experience of 
 the changed point of view that had been her 
 desire in coming to live in the Ghetto, she was 
 measuring the contentment of Liza's toilsome 
 days against the state of other women immeas- 
 urably less uplifted by having met a great de- 
 mand in a great way. And as she crept into her 
 little bed, she forgot how thin the mattress was, 
 in her exultant gratitude for having been led to 
 Maxwell Street. 
 
II 
 
 In the morning, Liza brought the steaming tea- 
 kettle to Beth's room tp fill her "chiny" wash- 
 bowl with hot water. 
 
 "Land sakes, child !" she exclaimed when she 
 saw Beth's little nightie, low-necked and short 
 of sleeve; "is that all you got to cover your 
 poor little bones with at night ?" 
 
 Beth tried to explain how hot was the steam- 
 heated bedroom she had occupied in the board- 
 ing-house. But Liza was sceptical. "Flannel- 
 ette's the thing," she declared. "Goodness ! 
 you'll be tied in a knot with rheumatiz, time 
 you're forty." 
 
 And, even though spring was coming on, Beth 
 felt that she would better get something more 
 suited to Liza's chill little front room ; for in 
 March and April and even in May, there are 
 many raw nights in Chicago. 
 
 Also, at breakfast, she was reminded of the tea- 
 pot which she had decided, the night before, she 
 must purchase. Liza liked black tea and she 
 liked it "good an' strong." Beth cared only for 
 the mildest infusion of uncolored Japan. So she 
 said she must get herself a tiny tea-pot and a 
 little bit of tea. 
 
 18 
 
JUST FOLKS 19 
 
 There were several other things she needed, 
 too. So after breakfast she went over to Halsted 
 and Fourteenth streets to what was self-styled 
 an emporium. 
 
 There was some consternation in the "empo- 
 rium" when she asked to have these things de- 
 livered at Liza Allen's. • Customers of the em- 
 porium furnished their own delivery service 
 nor would have consented otherwise ; when one 
 paid one's money out for a thing, one wished 
 immediate possession of it, not only because 
 things were seldom bought until long after they 
 had begun to be needed, but because one of 
 the proudest things about shopping was to go 
 home so bundle-laden that the ever-ready atten- 
 tion of the neighborhood should be attracted, 
 even to the possibility of accumulating a little 
 "following" who would accompany one home 
 to see the parcels unwrapped and hear the 
 tale of prices. 
 
 Beth carried her purchases back to Liza Allen's 
 and bestowed them in her room, where she had 
 thought to leave them still in their wrappings 
 until she came home after her day's work. But 
 Liza had begun to "help her unwrop" almost 
 before she had time to lay the bundles down, and 
 her interest in the disclosures and what Beth 
 had "give for" them was so keen and so happy 
 that again Beth yielded. She was beginning 
 to apprehend that in a life where excitements 
 
20 JUST FOLKS 
 
 are not many one must make the most of every 
 little interest, and that, by the wonderful law of 
 equivalence which operates everywhere, this eager- 
 ness to be interested in small things cultivated a 
 spirit whose potentiality for pleasure was in 
 excess of that usually found where excitements 
 are big and diversions many. 
 
 "Spent a good deal, didn't yeh ?" Liza ques- 
 tioned, a little anxiously. But Beth assured her 
 that she needed these things and made her feel 
 that they were, in a way, an effort to do 
 honor to the "best rentin' room in the neigh- 
 borhood." 
 
 That evening Hart Ferris called. When Beth 
 had told him of her new home, the evening she 
 was packing up to go to it, Hart heard her glumly. 
 
 "Every time I go to see you, after this, have 
 I got to call on Liza Allen, too ?" he asked. 
 
 Beth's eyes twinkled. "There's the kitchen 
 — " she began suggestively. 
 
 Ferris made a gesture of disgust. 
 
 "It's all the visiting place the girls over there 
 have," Beth went on soberly, " and few of them 
 have as c retired' a kitchen as Liza's. Maybe I 
 can get closer to the Juvenile Court girls, when 
 I live closer to their meagre opportunities." 
 
 The wistful look crept into her face as she spoke, 
 and Ferris found himself doing as he always did 
 when Beth looked that way : praying in his 
 heart "God bless her!" There was something 
 
JUST FOLKS 21 
 
 in him that rebelled against many of Beth's 
 undertakings, but it was a superficial some- 
 thing ; and deep down beneath it was another 
 something which loved her the more intensely 
 for meeting his protests with unflinching purpose. 
 
 On the evening of his first call at Maxwell 
 Street, Ferris found Beth threading needles for 
 Liza Allen, while that tireless woman worked at 
 "finishin'." 
 
 "Seems, a'ready, 's if she'd been here always," 
 Liza said to Ferris when she had welcomed him 
 and told him how Beth "fit in." 
 
 When Ferris said something about feeling like 
 an idler in that busy atmosphere, Liza took him 
 at his word and indulgently gave him a finished 
 wrapper, and told him to "take out the bastin's." 
 
 Ferris shot a quick look at Beth to see if there 
 was laughter in her eyes. But there wasn't ; 
 the look he caught before the blue eyes drooped 
 again to their needle-threading was a look which 
 made him take the wrapper and apply himself to 
 the "bastin's" as if that were the inevitable 
 thing for him to be doing. 
 
 "Seems real nice to have a man around again," 
 said Liza, gratefully. "I ain't had much mas- 
 c'line society sence Joe died. And I miss it, I 
 tell you. Most women's talk is awful tame to me. 
 I ain't never been one t' go along takin' no inter- 
 est in anythin' but vittles an' clo's, like most 
 women," she went on. "I like t' hear big 
 
22 JUST FOLKS 
 
 talk. Why ! th' other day the Presbyterian 
 preacher came here t' call on me. I guess he's 
 a well-meanin' young fella, but land ! he bored 
 me stiff. He told me 'bout the fine currant jell 
 his mother used t' make, and how handy his wife 
 was to trim her own hats. I didn't say nothin', 
 not wantin' t' hurt his feelin's. But if he'd 
 only have ast me what I thought o' the way 
 things is goin' with the gov'ment, I could have 
 enjoyed seein' him. I suppose that young man 
 kin read seven furrin tongues — dead languidges 
 I've heard 'em called — but he ain't got no 
 more sense o' live human bein's than a bleatin' 
 lamb." 
 
 So Ferris, taking his cue from the preacher's 
 failure, talked to Liza of the largest topics he 
 knew, or knew about ; and if at any time during 
 the call he thought wistfully of the kitchen, or 
 wished Liza would go to bed, he concealed the 
 wistfulness with supreme gallantry. 
 
 Beth accompanied him out into the dark hall 
 when he had said good night to Liza. 
 
 "Well — ?" she said. 
 
 He knew what she meant. "Well ?" he echoed, 
 teasingly. 
 
 "Are your worst fears confirmed ?" she insisted. 
 
 "My worst fears are not confirmed," he ad- 
 mitted. 
 
 "Do you begin to see why I wanted to come ?" 
 
 "I begin to see why you wanted to come." 
 
JUST FOLKS 23 
 
 That was a triumph Beth had not dared to 
 expect so soon. 
 
 Beth was curious about her neighbors, but 
 Liza Allen had few callers ; she did not even 
 encourage the other women of the house to sit and 
 talk to her as she sewed. They "flustered" her, 
 she said, and she could not afford to be flustered ; 
 she was happier sitting by herself and thinking 
 of Joe's elegant funeral as she sewed and sewed 
 to pay for it. And sew she must right steadily, 
 for longer and longer hours each year as her 
 fumbling fingers grew less and less expert and 
 trade had to be wooed with lower and lower 
 prices. 
 
 In an occasional moment of depression Liza 
 would admit to Beth that she wasn't "up to 
 all the wrinkles" she saw in her magazine of 
 styles ; but to her trade she never talked less 
 authoritatively than a sibyl ; and every month 
 she hung on her front door downstairs, under the 
 faded sign which advertised "Fashionable Dress- 
 making," the gaudiest colored plate from her 
 magazine, showing the willowiest of French figures 
 in the trailingest of French evening frocks. 
 
 Beth used to wonder a good deal about the 
 women who pored so intently over Liza's style 
 book, lingering — some delightedly, some resent- 
 fully — over the "dressiest" pictures, and then 
 agreeing with Liza that they'd "best have 
 
24 JUST FOLKS 
 
 a good basque; 'twon't go out o' style so 
 
 soon." 
 
 But none of these customers yielded Beth 
 any friendship until an eventful Saturday when 
 she had been with Liza for nearly two weeks. 
 On that day, about ten in the morning, Liza 
 opened her door in response to a faint knock and 
 admitted an elfish person almost completely en- 
 veloped in a large black shawl. The hall was so 
 black and the shawl was so black that when 
 Liza first peered into the blackness all she could 
 see was a very small white face and the shining 
 of two very large dark eyes. 
 
 "Be you the drissmaker?" asked the elf. 
 
 "I be," said Liza, still peering. 
 
 "How much d'ye charge fer my size ?" 
 
 "Lan' sakes, I don't know! Come in an* 
 leave me look at you." 
 
 The elf stepped inside and looked about her 
 awesomely. Then from the recesses of the 
 shrouding shawl she produced a bundle wrapped 
 in a pink "sporting sheet," and disclosed a piece 
 of dark red dress goods which Liza called " me- 
 rino," and was promptly corrected by the elf. 
 "'Tis i7mrietta-cloth," she said. 
 
 "Sure," agreed Liza, handling it with critical 
 fingers. "I hadn't felt of it when I said merino." 
 
 The elf said her name was Midget Casey, that 
 she lived "to Hinry Street, number twinty-wan," 
 and that the goods "was give" her by "a lady 
 
JUST FOLKS 25 
 
 upstairs" whose baby she had tended and whose 
 errands she had run while the lady was sick. 
 " She was goin' t' git it in a waist hersilf," the 
 explanation continued, "but she give it to me if 
 I would help her ; an' I. did." Since then — 
 that was a month ago — Midget had been 
 hoarding the goods and working "t' git it made 
 stylish." She had scorn, it seemed, of her ma's 
 dressmaking as having no style. This Midget 
 attributed to the lack of "patrons" (patterns), 
 which she was anxious to know if Liza used. 
 "I want it made Frinch" she announced, "long in 
 th' waist an' short in th' skirt." She indicated 
 in the style book what she meant, pointing with 
 a grimy wee finger. "How much fer th' mak- 
 in' ?" she asked, and turned up to Liza such 
 wishful big eyes that Liza checked the "Fifty 
 cents " which rose to her lips, and asked instead, 
 "How much you got?" Midget had thirty- 
 five cents, all in nickels. "I made 'em lightin' 
 fires fer th' Sheenies," she said. Jewish law 
 forbids the lighting of fires on Saturday mornings, 
 and a nickel is the price for which a Gentile 
 child is hired to assume the penalty of this 
 sacrilege. " If thim ain't enough," urged Midget, 
 to whom the seven nickels looked enough for 
 anything, "could youse do th' rist on me word ? " 
 Liza thought they would be enough and was re- 
 turning them to Midget until payment should be 
 earned, but Midget demurred. "You kape 
 
26 JUST FOLKS 
 
 thim," she said shrewdly, "thin I know wheer 
 they are." There was a note of relief in her voice, 
 as if of satisfaction to know that all the tempta- 
 tion to divert that money she had suffered for 
 weeks was over now. Beth felt it, and her im- 
 mediate impulse was to return the hoard to 
 Midget and herself pay Liza for the making of 
 the dress. But something made her hestitate. 
 
 "I'll help you with it," she said to Liza when 
 Midget was gone; "you oughtn't to take your 
 time for so little pay." Already, the obligations 
 of Joe's funeral were beginning to lie heavily on 
 Beth too. 
 
 "The pay's enough," Liza rejoined delibera- 
 tively, "and if it wa'n't, it's little I git doin' 
 fer a child." 
 
 "That thirty-five cents is a big pile of money 
 to her," Beth suggested. "I thought I might 
 manage to make the dress so she could keep the 
 money." 
 
 "You let her pay fer her dress," Liza com- 
 manded. "Folks git most pleasure out o' what 
 costs 'em most." And in the face of such proof 
 as Liza herself, Beth could not deny this. 
 
 But the next time she went out she instituted 
 search for 'Hinry" Street and located "twinty- 
 wan, " which was a substantial brick house of 
 three stories and what the neighborhood calls a 
 basement, but the tenement-house laws call a 
 cellar because it is two-thirds or more under the 
 
JUST FOLKS 27 
 
 street level. The Caseys lived in the rear cellar, 
 Beth learned of a child in the street, and the 
 approach thereto was down a steep flight of 
 perilously rickety wooden steps and along a 
 narrow plank walk to a side door, and then into 
 a small black entryway with doors opening into 
 the Caseys' "front room" and into the kitchen 
 of the front flat, and with steeply winding stairs 
 disappearing into the blackness above. Beth 
 rapped at the rear door, and after a few moments' 
 delay it was opened by a woman with a child in 
 her arms. 
 
 "Mrs. Casey?" asked Beth. 
 
 "Sure," was the response; "will ye come 
 in?" 
 
 Beth followed the woman through the "front 
 room," which was unfurnished and chill, into the 
 kitchen, which was stifling with heat and damp 
 and that peculiar acrid odor — compounded of 
 mustiness and personal uncleanness and stale 
 odors of strong cooking — which every visitor 
 to the homes of the poor knows as "the poverty 
 smell." 
 
 Fire raged to the brim of the big, heavily 
 nickeled cook stove which the Caseys were 
 buying by what they optimistically called "aisy 
 payments," and the rest of the steaming room 
 seemed full of dripping clothes. Mary Casey 
 had been washing, and when her wash was hung 
 on the lines overhead (it was a wet day) she had 
 
28 JUST FOLKS 
 
 dumped the tubful of suds on her kitchen floor 
 and swept the water out the back door. 
 
 On the black, soppy floor sat a weird, wizened 
 little boy who glowered at Beth unsociably. 
 
 "Git up, Dewey," his mother commanded, 
 "an' have some manners about ye." 
 
 The baby in her mother's arms was a pretty 
 little girl of two, maybe, evidently "backward," 
 but attractive in spite of one sore eye. 
 
 Beth explained that she lodged at the dress- 
 maker's — thanking her stars that for once she 
 did not have to introduce herself to a new house- 
 hold as "de p'leece lady" — and said she had 
 come to ask Midget something about the making 
 of her dress. 
 
 Midget's mother was guiltless of knowledge 
 that Midget was getting a dress made, or even 
 that she had "the makin's." Seeing which, 
 Beth began to hedge uncomfortably, sorry she 
 had betrayed the child. But in a moment she 
 became aware that Mary Casey was thoroughly 
 elated at the news. 
 
 "Well, now, ain't that smart of 'er?" she 
 queried delightedly. "Her that have niver had 
 a new dress in her life, that I kin raymimber. 
 Rid, did ye say ? It'll become 'er fine, won't it ? 
 An' a rale drissmaker t' make it ! Did ye iver?" 
 The mother was amused as well as proud. 
 
 As she talked, Beth had been studying her 
 interestedly, conscious of a strong drawing toward 
 
JUST FOLKS 29 
 
 the thin Irish woman with her wisps of faded 
 hair screwed back tightly from her prominent 
 forehead ; her scarcity of teeth ; her fine, 
 flashing eyes ; and her gnarled hands — hid- 
 eously parboiled just now — on the wedding 
 finger of which hung loosely a thin gold band. 
 There was something reminiscent about Mrs. 
 Casey's voice, and about the humor in her dark 
 eyes. It bothered Beth ; and then, in a flash, 
 the connecting link of memory was found, and 
 Beth asked : — 
 
 "Mrs. Casey, did you ever know any one by the 
 name of Tully ?" 
 
 "I did that," was the prompt answer. "I 
 worked out fer 'em just before I was married." 
 
 "Then you were Mary Keegan ?" 
 
 "Yis, ma'am." 
 
 "And I am little Beth Tully." 
 
 "Fer the love of!" cried Mary Casey. And 
 then followed questions and explanations, the 
 history, briefly told, of eighteen years. 
 
 "Yer not married ?" asked Mary. 
 
 "No," Beth answered, and could feel Mary's 
 frank sympathy; "not yet. And I'm getting 
 awful old, Mary; I'm twenty-five." 
 
 "Ye don' look it," said Mary, handsomely. 
 
 Beth loved the graciousness of Mary. 
 
 "An' how's yer ma ?" Mary Casey went on. 
 
 Beth told her of the breaking up of their home, 
 after her father's death three years ago ; of the 
 
30 JUST FOLKS 
 
 discovery that he had left nothing but life in- 
 surance which, of course, only the little mother 
 must touch ; and of her own coming to Chicago 
 to earn a living. 
 
 "An' yer workin' fer yer bit of livin', ye poor 
 little lamb ?" crooned Mary, tenderly. "What 
 d'ye do?" Beth told her. "Fer the love of!" 
 the older woman cried compassionately. 
 
 Beth was essentially a sturdy young soul, 
 and she did not relish being felt sorry for. But 
 the humor in her that was her genius came to 
 her aid, and she accepted the situation with 
 keen appreciation. 
 
 "And you, Mary ?" she said. 
 
 "I've had nine," said Mary, proudly, "an' 
 sivin of 'em's alive." 
 
 "And your husband ?" 
 
 Mary laughed. "Sure, he's alive, all right." 
 
 Involuntarily, Beth looked about her, and 
 Mary read the look. 
 
 "He ain't workin' stiddy," she explained. 
 
 "He" was a stone-cutter by trade and, ap- 
 parently, a loafer by occupation ; this last, how- 
 ever, was no conscious admission of Mary's. 
 He was a "foine scolard," she said, and could 
 "rade an' write jest as aisy" — which she 
 herself could not do. But he had "th' failin'," 
 and what with that and with cement taking the 
 place of stone, the way it was, he had hard 
 work finding jobs. 
 
JUST FOLKS 31 
 
 No, he "didn' have no caard fer no other 
 kind of trade;" and as for an open shop, where 
 "caards" were not necessary, he'd starve before 
 he'd "work wid scabs." And what made it 
 kind of hard was that various charity organiza- 
 tions had no sympathy with his predicament, 
 and refused aid if the visitors came and found 
 him at home. 
 
 Sometimes he did go away in search of indus- 
 trial conditions better suited to a "man wid 
 princ'ples," where it is neither too wet nor too 
 dry, too hot nor too cold to work, and everybody 
 belongs to the union. With the first soft days of 
 spring, he almost always heard of some "gran' 
 job" far afield, and he had — it seemed — a 
 remarkable facility in getting to these places, 
 although the facility always failed when it came 
 to finding the job. It was astonishing, to Mary, 
 how few opportunities the world had to offer 
 a man who was a "scolard" and a fierce enemy 
 to scabs. 
 
 In consequence, there was seldom any money 
 forthcoming from these tours in quest of ideal 
 employment, but they were a boon to the family 
 none the less, for then they hadn't the burden of 
 his "keep." Alas! though, the tours were al- 
 ways undertaken in pleasant weather when 
 travelling is easy but charity is inoperative. 
 With the first biting cold he came back along the 
 boardwalk, some night at supper time ; and 
 
32 JUST FOLKS 
 
 throughout the winter, while the wolf snapped at 
 the warped ill-fitting door, he sat with his feet 
 in the oven and kept scrupulous charity from 
 pulling the wolf away. 
 
 All this Beth gathered from Mary's talk. 
 
 "And the children?" she said. "They sup- 
 port you.?" 
 
 "Well, mos'ly they do. But 'tis oncertain- 
 like, Mikey bein' out of a job so much. He's 
 seventeen, now, but awful thin and not rale 
 smart in the head." 
 
 He had gone to work when he was eleven, Mary 
 went on to explain — child-labor laws were 
 less rigorous then — in a wall-paper factory, where 
 he worked in a steaming room whose temperature 
 averaged no°. And he had "took th' paint- 
 p'isnin'." His "stumick hadn't set right" since 
 then, and Beth gathered from what Mary said 
 that Mikey was a bit flighty and lacked a sense 
 of responsibility. Skilled workmen couldn't be 
 bothered with him for a helper and apprentice. 
 He had always to do a week's work now here, 
 now there, for the meagre wage. And when a 
 rush subsided and any one was "let off," Mikey 
 was always the first one spared. 
 
 Beth was full of sympathy. Maybe . she 
 could help Mikey — could get some one to take 
 an interest in him. "What is he working at 
 now ?" she said. 
 
 Mary flushed and hesitated. Then, "I'll 
 
JUST FOLKS 33 
 
 tell you, Miss Tully, because I know ye'll under- 
 stan'. Mos'ly I tell thim that asks, ourMikey's 
 workin' on th' Sout' Side, though there's thim 
 aroun' here that know, I'm afraid. He's in that 
 place they call th' bean house." 
 
 "Why, Mary ! What for ?" 
 
 Mary stiffened resentfully. She had evi- 
 dently not understood what Beth meant when 
 she told her — slurring the "Court" part as 
 much as possible — that she was a Juvenile 
 Probation Officer, and she mistook Beth's 
 sympathetic interest for reproach. 
 
 "Fer bein' discour'ged — though that isn' 
 what they called it in the court." 
 
 "I know!" cried little Beth, "I know!" 
 Then she explained to Mary Casey what her 
 work was. 
 
 "Was it — was it you that had 'im sint up ?" 
 
 "No, Mary, no ! I've been in this district only 
 a few weeks. I used to have a district on the 
 Northwest Side." 
 
 Mikey must have been before the Juvenile 
 Court and sent to the John Worthy Reform 
 School just before Beth came into the Nineteenth 
 Ward district. He had found the cluttered 
 kitchen intolerable, evenings, and had taken to 
 going out with some of the neighborhood boys. 
 Disheartened by many rebuffs, he could see no 
 future worth hoping for. And the present was 
 bitter indeed, what with having to give every 
 
34 JUST FOLKS 
 
 penny he earned to keep souls and bodies to- 
 gether at home, and with Pa drinking up part 
 of those pitifully few pennies and cursing the 
 stupidity in Mikey which made them so few. 
 The boys he went with were young rowdies, 
 believed by the police to be responsible for 
 sundry acts of lawlessness, such as holding high 
 carnival of dice-throwing and beer-drinking in a 
 vacant store without the owner's permission, 
 and damaging his property in the revel, and at- 
 tempting to tamper with the locks on freight- 
 cars, for purposes of petty thieving. The boys 
 seemed to the Law to be young criminals-in-the- 
 making and, not knowing any better thing to do 
 for them, the Law had put them under restraint 
 and instruction. 
 
 All this Beth was able to gather, partly from 
 what Mary said and largely through her own 
 knowledge of such situations. 
 
 The support of the family, now, was Angela 
 Ann, who was not quite sixteen but swore she 
 "was over." She was a bundle wrapper, just 
 at present, in a West Side "Emporium" where 
 she got $3.50 a week. 
 
 Beth was indignant at "Pa." As an officer 
 of the Juvenile Court it was a large part of her 
 business to deal summarily with the delinquent 
 parents of what the law calls "dependent chil- 
 dren." She hinted to Mary that Pa might be 
 brought before the Court and made to work ; but 
 
JUST FOLKS 35 
 
 the hint was evidently not approved, so Beth 
 did not urge it. 
 
 No wonder that thirty-five cents had looked 
 large to Midget ! No wonder she felt relieved 
 to deposit it beyond recall ! She came in 
 before Beth left and looked momentarily 
 startled at the probable betrayal of her secret. 
 But Mary's beaming pride soon reassured her. 
 "Girls do be nadin' a pritty thing now'n' agin'," 
 she told Beth, beaming at Midget the while. 
 "'Tis more t' them, sometimes, ner what they 
 kin ate. An' as fer fire, there's none like pride 
 t' kape ye warm." 
 
 Beth took Midget out with her, when she went, 
 to bring back the "little treat for the children" 
 she asked Mary if she might not buy "to cele- 
 brate old times when you used to bake me saucer 
 pies, and little cakes in the covers of the baking- 
 powder tins." 
 
 That evening she told Liza Allen and Hart 
 Ferris about the Caseys. She was a little 
 delicate, at first, about going too searchingly 
 into details about Pa before Liza, who had herself 
 suffered so much from a worthless man. But 
 she need not have been. For Liza soon made 
 it plain to her that she might inveigh all she 
 wanted to against idle, selfish men who, instead 
 of bearing the burdens, made of themselves the 
 heaviest weight upon their poor families. Liza 
 was of one mind with her about such men ; and 
 
36 JUST FOLKS 
 
 so, it seemed, had the lamented Joe been, too. 
 For whenever Liza had asked him if he didn't 
 feel bad to think he'd had to live and die without 
 raising a family, Joe had always replied with 
 righteous warmth that he was glad — "not bein' 
 one to raise a f am'ly unless he could do handsome 
 by 'em. Joe was that smart himself, he couldn't 
 never have stood it t' raise children that wa'n't 
 clever. If he'd of had boys, I bet it'd have been 
 college fer every one — that was Joe!" 
 
 Beth looked at Ferris and Ferris looked at Beth. 
 
 "I think," said Beth, when she could trust her- 
 self to speak, "that the law ought to get after Pa 
 and put him in jail if he won't work." 
 
 "Well, now," Liza answered judicially, hold- 
 ing up a finished "basque" and surveying it 
 critically, her head on one side, "that ain't 
 so durned easy t' say. I guess they can't 
 nobody decide when other folks has stood their 
 troubles long enough. If them that's bearing 
 'em hollers, I guess mebbe it's all right t' run in 
 an' help 'em — though that don't always foller 
 neither — but until they ask fer the law, I can't 
 see but what the law has got t' leave 'em work 
 out their own salvation — in fear an' tremblin'." 
 
Ill 
 
 Every day that Beth lived in Maxwell Street 
 she became more and more aware of the amazing 
 difference it was making in her work and in her, 
 to live close to the daily problems of a few typi- 
 cal human beings. She began to think with 
 scorn of the profitless intercourse of the genteel 
 boarding-house she had left and to wonder if 
 the people she had met there were actually as 
 colorless, as bloodless, as apart from real life 
 and its issues as they seemed, or whether there 
 was something in the atmosphere that en- 
 veloped them as in a fog and made each of them 
 seem to all his neighbors like a phantom, a shape 
 stalking through a vague, chaotic dream. Over 
 here, there was such intense reality in people. 
 Every one seemed definite, individual. Every- 
 thing they did seemed to belong to life in such 
 an integral, essential way. 
 
 Just "over Monahan's," for instance, there 
 was a wonderful little world, sufficient in itself 
 to keep one interested. Liza knew all about her 
 neighbors, as a matter of course, but she had 
 little or no time to "mix with 'em" as she called 
 it. It was, however, not a gossipy tenement 
 
 37 
 
38 JUST FOLKS 
 
 and no one's feelings were hurt by Liza's steady 
 application to work. 
 
 In the rooms back of her lived a very quiet 
 family of Russian Jews : the father and mother, 
 the mother's mother, and three children all above 
 fourteen years. Their name was something 
 unpronounceable, contracted to Slinsky. The 
 father was a gentle poetic-looking man, who 
 might have stood to Sargent for one of the least- 
 direful Prophets in his great fresco. He was a 
 dreamer, with none of the commercial sense of 
 his race. He made a rigidly honest living — 
 meagre, but always well within the limits of 
 self-respect amounting to pride — for himself 
 and his family, by peddling brushes. This 
 left him free to keep his Saturdays and holydays 
 for the Lord. He was a gentle but unrelenting 
 fanatic in his orthodoxy. His wife was a large 
 woman of a melancholy disposition, inclined to 
 constant fretfulness. Her mother was little 
 and shrunken and considered very venerable and 
 aged, though she was just sixty. She wore the 
 black wig of the Jewish elderly woman and was 
 so like thousands of others of her sort in the 
 Ghetto that Beth used to marvel how their own 
 kindred could tell "one Grandma from another." 
 The children were : Abe, a tall, handsome 
 youth of sixteen, finishing his third year at the 
 High School ; Sarah, his younger sister, pretty 
 and vivacious and loving gayety ; and Dinah, 
 
JUST FOLKS 39 
 
 the eldest of the children, a poor, squat little 
 dwarf with a fine large thoughtful face set on a 
 body no bigger than a child of six should have. 
 Dinah was to graduate from the High School this 
 June, and Liza had "heard tell" that one of 
 Dinah's classmates, who was her particular friend, 
 was a blind girl. All this made Beth intensely 
 anxious to know the Slinksys, but they were 
 exceedingly reserved, and the passionate drama 
 of their lives unfolded to her almost not at all 
 for many weeks. 
 
 Below the Slinskys lived the family of Joe 
 Gooch, a teamster. He was a very giant in 
 stature, a hard worker, a tender husband and 
 father, a thoroughly nice, good man of the sort 
 frequently developed by a pretty, incompetent 
 wife. Mamie Gooch had been a "saleslady," 
 and five years of married life had made, appar- 
 ently, so little impress on her that one felt she 
 could at any moment have stepped out of her 
 untidy kitchen, bunched out her pompadour to a 
 little more monstrous proportions, exchanged her 
 wrapper for a black dress, and gone back to a 
 place behind a counter, without carrying with her 
 one sobering, maturing trace of her wifehood and 
 motherhood. 
 
 In front of the Gooches and below Liza lived 
 Hannah Wexsmith, a little Irish widow who 
 always made Beth think of Dickens and regret 
 that the great romancer could not have added 
 
4 o JUST FOLKS 
 
 Hannah to his gallery of immortals. It took 
 Beth a considerable time to learn to know 
 Hannah, so we may not be precipitate here. 
 Superficially, the main facts about Hannah were 
 that she had lived in those rooms for eighteen 
 years, since before the incursion of the Jews, 
 and before the death of her husband, who was a 
 janitor's assistant in a downtown office building 
 and was killed by a fall from a high window he 
 was cleaning. Hannah was childless, which, so 
 far as outlook went, meant not only that she had 
 no one besides herself to consider in her present, 
 but no one to whom she could look for con- 
 sideration in her future. The rent of her 
 rooms was #10 a month when she first took 
 them, #12 later on and now. She sublet her 
 two front rooms ; when they were continu- 
 ously tenanted and the rent was not "behind- 
 hand," the revenue from them was $18 a month. 
 And on the difference between her fixed and un- 
 postponable obligation to the landlord, and her 
 lodgers' variable and much-deferred obligations 
 to her, she managed to live, somehow, and to keep 
 aloof from the smallest evidence of poverty. 
 The house next on the west was three stories high 
 and very close. Upstairs, Liza's kitchen and the 
 Slinskys' got some light filtering down from the 
 zenith, but Hannah's kitchen and Mamie Gooch's 
 were as "dark as pockets." Mamie had her 
 "front" room, overlooking the yard, to live in. 
 
JUST FOLKS 41 
 
 But Hannah lived in her tomblike kitchen and a 
 stifling closet, miscalled a room, where her cot- 
 bed stood. It would never have entered her 
 head to invade, for longer than the time neces- 
 sary to "do them up," those front rooms, sacred 
 to the lodgers. 
 
 At the head of the first flight of stairs was a wall 
 bracket containing a small glass lamp. The halls 
 were as black at noon as at midnight, but custom 
 decreed that the lamp should be lighted by the 
 tenant of the second floor front rooms, each evening 
 at six, and that the feeble beacon should glimmer 
 until it expired, somewhere in those wee, small 
 hours when the last stumbling, home-coming step 
 had, supposedly, reached the door of its desti- 
 nation. Hannah Wexsmith had been the keeper 
 of the light for eighteen years and had never once 
 failed in her duty. No guardian of a great coast 
 beacon ever held his office more responsibly. 
 
 It was in the discharge of this duty that she 
 used to be in the hall sometimes when Beth was 
 coming home at night, and there they had their 
 first intercourse, which was no more than what 
 Hannah called "biddin' the time o' day." Later, 
 when the spring evenings grew warm enough, 
 Hannah would carry a green carpet-covered 
 hassock down to the street door and sit there for 
 hours, half-hidden by Monahan's overflow of 
 cabbages, watching the human comedy in Max- 
 well Street ; and here Beth would come to sit 
 
42 JUST FOLKS 
 
 beside her, sometimes — but of all this, and of 
 the others, more anon. 
 
 The Caseys yielded her an intimate friendship 
 much more readily than did anybody else but 
 Liza Allen. Partly this was because of her old- 
 time connection with Mary, and partly it was be- 
 cause the Caseys were the Caseys — so rich in 
 human nature that every visit to them, every 
 call from them, was an illumination in the ways 
 of life. 
 
 Beth was especially concerned to do something 
 with or to Pa. But one reason why it was so 
 difficult to do anything drastic regarding Casey 
 was that he was always on the very eve of "gittin' 
 a gran' job." That he hardly ever got any of 
 these jobs, or that when he did get one, he failed 
 to keep it, did not seem to quench his family's 
 faith in him. And before Beth was aware of 
 what was happening, the contagion of this hope- 
 fulness had spread to her. She had never yet 
 seen Pa ; but as day after day she went to see 
 Mary and found her in need of everything, but 
 splendidly buoyed up by the assurance that 
 "yistiddy he was after hearin' of a gran' job 
 that a man tell him of, an' to-day he've gon' t' 
 see about gittin' it," she, too, was conscious of 
 an exhilarating expectancy. 
 
 She always asked eagerly, next time she went, 
 if he had got the "gran' job," and was always told 
 a harrowing tale of how it had been "give out 
 
JUST FOLKS 43 
 
 just ten minutes befoore he got there," or how 
 "the boss was after givin' it to a man he favored." 
 But she began to feel with the Caseys the ex- 
 citement of a situation wherein they could not 
 tell the moment Pa might get a day's work 
 at four dollars. Why, it had even happened, 
 several times, that he worked a whole week and 
 swaggered in an affluence which kept the family 
 dizzy opening parcels. Beth felt that one ought 
 not to be "brash" about jailing a man who at 
 any moment was likely to be worth four dollars a 
 day. 
 
 Almost, Beth told herself, smiling whimsically, 
 she was beginning to see the advantages — in 
 this life of ours where expectancy is quite as neces- 
 sary a staple as sufficiency, if not, indeed, rather 
 more necessary — of the continued imminence 
 of a grand job over the steady grind of an 
 assured wage. 
 
 But there were times, too, when she shared 
 the family reaction — the inevitable "slump" 
 after too giddy hopefulness. Sometimes this 
 took the form of deep depression, sometimes of 
 sharp exasperation. It was during one of these 
 latter times that Beth ventured to speak again 
 of the Juvenile Court. Mary was dubious. 
 "It'd make him awful mad," she hazarded. 
 Beth thought that was probable. "An' whin 
 he's riled, he have a pritty bad temper." Mary 
 was at that moment wearing the family panacea, 
 
44 JUST FOLKS 
 
 a brown paper soaked in vinegar, over a bruise 
 on her right temple ; it was this, indeed, that had 
 fired Beth to speak. Yes, Beth could believe 
 that he had a temper, but she wouldn't ask Mary 
 to make the charges — she would do that herself. 
 But still Mary wavered. 
 
 "Don't you do it," she pleaded — and Beth 
 was not deceived as to Mary's solicitude and for 
 whom it was greatest — "for I wouldn't put it 
 past him t' lay fer you some night whin he got 
 out — he'd be that mad !" 
 
 So the regeneration of Pa by process of law 
 was kept in abeyance for a while, and Beth 
 tried to soften the hard lot of the little Caseys 
 by begging enough to get them shod and clad — 
 the latter savoring a little of motley, in truth, 
 but warm and, when Beth could compass it, 
 bright-hued. For instance, when she learned 
 the passion of Mollie's soul for red shoes and the 
 need of Mollie's feet for shoes of any kind, she 
 decided that red would wear as well as black and 
 in every other respect would please better, so she 
 bought red. They pleased ! Mollie slept with 
 them on for three nights, meeting all remonstrance 
 with : — 
 
 "Agin I take thim off, how do I know I'll iver 
 see thim anny more ?" 
 
 Then Beth intervened and confidence was in- 
 duced in Mollie. Alas, it was doomed to a vio- 
 lent shaking very soon. 
 
JUST FOLKS 45 
 
 Midget came over to Liza Allen's one afternoon 
 in a state of woe so far beyond speech that it was 
 a long time before Liza and Beth could make 
 out what had happened. At length : — 
 
 "We're after bein' robbed!" Midget wailed 
 between her sobs. And then, little by little, 
 came the details — such meagre details as there 
 were. Mollie's red shoes and stockings were 
 gone, and Midget's red dress was gone, and 
 other warm, pawnable, whole things of recent 
 acquisition were gone. 
 
 In an instant, Beth's mind framed an accusa- 
 tion, but she stopped herself just short of de- 
 livering it. 
 
 "Who," she faltered instead, "who could 
 have robbed you, Midget ?" 
 
 Midget dried her tears momentarily, while the 
 mystery and delicious excitability of the thing 
 outweighed the woe of it. 
 
 "We dunno," she said, "but my ma have a 
 lady frien' wid a young gen'leman son that's 
 a burglar — that's his business — an' we think 
 mebbe he done it." 
 
 Midget was very matter-of-fact about the 
 young gentleman's business, and mentioned it in 
 quite the same casual tone she would have em- 
 ployed had she said he was a plumber or an ice- 
 man, and she seemed fatalistic about the red 
 shoes and the red dress, as if — it being the 
 young gentleman's work in the world to "burgle," 
 
46 JUST FOLKS 
 
 and their small treasures coming in the way of 
 his work by reason of his ma having been to 
 call on her ma and seen all the new belongings — 
 it were futile to combat the inevitable. 
 
 Beth let no breath of her suspicion taint the 
 child, but when Midget was gone she blazed 
 forth in an anger that fairly startled Liza. Now 
 she was going to have him arrested, the miserable 
 cur ! The idea of a lot of people who ought to 
 know better, standing around "hemming and 
 hawing" while a cowardly wretch was robbing 
 his little children. The more she railed, the 
 madder she got. 
 
 "I'm going right over there !" she announced 
 to Liza. 
 
 Liza remonstrated. "He might be to home," 
 she urged. 
 
 But Beth only hoped he would be, so she could 
 tell him what she thought of him. 
 
 It was a raw, wet evening, and not many per- 
 sons were abroad in the bleak, muddy streets as 
 Beth, having hurried through an early supper 
 with Liza, started out on her mission of venge- 
 ance. 
 
 Henry Street was very dark, and the alleyway 
 back to the Caseys' door was darker still, but 
 Beth did not mind darkness. Long since she 
 had got over the idea that people who are poor 
 are probably dangerous ; long ago she had 
 
JUST FOLKS 47 
 
 learned that Henry Street is many degrees safer 
 than Michigan Boulevard. 
 
 Her knock on the kitchen door — she always 
 went to the back now and entered as the Caseys 
 themselves did, direct from the oozy yard — 
 brought Mary to it, and her first glance within 
 revealed Pa. 
 
 The kitchen was stifling hot, but Pa sat with 
 his feet on the opened door of the oven. His 
 coat was off, his shoes were off; he was * 'down to " 
 trousers, thick woollen socks, and a heavy woollen 
 undershirt of a hideous mustard-colored hue. 
 It was some minutes before he chanced so to 
 turn his face that the feeble lamplight shone full 
 on it and Beth got a real idea of how he looked. 
 The first few minutes of their conversation — 
 and immediately she had entered and been in- 
 troduced, Pa assumed the whole burden of her 
 entertainment — she was able to see him only in 
 silhouette and to hear his voice, which had a 
 pleasant low pitch and was full of notes whose 
 plaintiveness all but disarmed her. He was 
 telling her of the difficulties of the labor situation, 
 the hard position he was forced into by the in- 
 flexibility of his "princ'ples," and his inclination 
 to believe that "if this here Sociable party was 
 to git elected, things would be better for the 
 lab'rin' min." And Mary and the children 
 listened, spellbound with awe and admiration of 
 him. 
 
48 JUST FOLKS 
 
 When Beth remembered about the theft of the 
 red shoes she felt somehow unable to refer to it 
 in the way she had meant to. Instead, she com- 
 miserated Pa on his loss, and Pa rewarded her 
 with as fine a flow of vituperation of the "t'ief " 
 as she could in her moment of greatest indignation 
 have desired. Almost, as she listened, Beth 
 found herself on the point of offering Pa an apol- 
 ogy for the accusation she had harbored against 
 him but had not uttered. 
 
 No ; he had not reported his loss to the police. 
 "Thim coppers niver take no intrust in a poor 
 man, and annyway they niver ketch nothin'." 
 Why, Pa had even heard it whispered, in high 
 circles, where they know such things, that "the 
 coppers is in cahoots wid de robbers all de time ! " 
 No, he hadn't charged anything against the 
 young gentleman whose known business it was 
 to burgle, because they had no sort of evidence 
 against him, and 'tis a grave crime to accuse a 
 man falsely ; also, his ma was a nice lady that 
 Casey wouldn't want to offend, and anyway, 
 he was going to buy Mollie and Midget red 
 dresses and red shoes "t' beat th' band," when 
 he got the grand job that was promised him for 
 next week sure. 
 
 He got up as he said this and moved his chair, 
 and Beth had her first glimpse of his face. It 
 was almost the most inoffensive face she had 
 ever seen, youthfully round in outline and guile- 
 
JUST FOLKS 49 
 
 less in expression. The big Irish-blue eyes were 
 wonderfully appealing, and when Pa smiled, 
 Beth could see where the children got their 
 lovely dimples — even under grime and stubble 
 Pa's persisted. 
 
 Much baffled by the problem of Pa was Beth, 
 when she got to Liza's, but Hart Ferris, who was 
 awaiting her there, laughed at her perplexity. 
 
 "Why, Beth dear," he said, "that rapscallion 
 probably had the pawn-ticket for those red things 
 in his pocket when he was talking to you ! A 
 nice little sentimentalist like you is no match for 
 Pa ! Now, just to show you, I'm going to drop 
 in at Maxwell Street police station as I go home, 
 and ask my old friend, Sergeant Doonan, to 
 see if he can't find out what Pa did with those red 
 shoes. No, of course the police don't care — on 
 general principles — but I'm going to explain to 
 Doonan ; he has a sense of humor, and he doesn't 
 mind obliging a newspaper man now and then, 
 when it's just as easy as not. You wait and see ! " 
 
 "Sure, I'll find out!" roared Doonan, when 
 Ferris told him. Beth and her "job" were a 
 huge joke to Doonan, and he decidedly relished 
 this opportunity of belittling the judgment of any 
 girl who meddled in police matters. "I'll pinch 
 him to-night and sweat him a bit ; ten to one 
 we'll find the ticket on him." 
 
 They did ! And they "took it off of" him — 
 
So JUST FOLKS 
 
 which was not according to law, of course ; for 
 the law allows a man to steal from his own chil- 
 dren ; even to steal that which he had no part 
 in giving them. But the law felt able to take a 
 few liberties with Casey without fear of his 
 retaliating. 
 
 Doonan sent an officer, first thing next morning, 
 over to Liza Allen's to give the pawn-ticket to 
 Beth. The officer said he would go with her to 
 the pawnshop if she wanted to redeem the things, 
 and Beth accepted the offer. Out of her own 
 meagre salary Beth bought back the things, 
 and when she had got them, she went direct to 
 Henry Street. The officer was much amused 
 by the purposeful stride of her and the look of 
 stern determination in her face. Secretly he 
 hoped Pa was at home ; he wanted the fun of 
 standing by and seeing Pa confronted by the 
 angry little "p'leece lady" with the recovered 
 property. 
 
 Pa was not at home. His pursuit of the grand 
 job had begun unusually early that morning. 
 So Beth dismissed the officer — who judged there- 
 from that she had been a bit afraid of facing Pa 
 with "the ividince" — and further, withdrew 
 Mary apart from the children and into the 
 " front room," before opening her parcel and 
 disclosing the contents. 
 
 "Fer the love o' Hivin !" cried Mary, de- 
 lightedly. "Wheer did ye git thim ?" 
 
JUST FOLKS 51 
 
 She made a move toward the door as if to call 
 the children to acclaim their recovered treasures. 
 But Beth stopped her. 
 
 "Wait!" she said. 
 
 It was harder to do than she had thought it 
 would be. If only Mary Casey had looked in- 
 dignant ! But she didn't ; she looked stricken, 
 and the tears rolled slowly down her shrunken 
 cheeks. 
 
 "I t'ought he was free-an'-aisy-like," she 
 sobbed. " I knew he didn't have rale ambition t' 
 git on, but I niver t'ought he'd do a t'ing like 
 this!" 
 
 Beth was young, but she was old enough to 
 have lived through the experience of being brought 
 face to face with irrefutable proof that some one 
 she yearned to believe in was baser than she had 
 supposed possible — yes, and to have hated the 
 proof-producer ! So she knew how Mary felt, 
 and how to be grateful when that distressed 
 woman did not turn on her husband's accuser. 
 
 "Don't tell thim," Mary pleaded, meaning 
 the children. "'Tis hard enough fer thim to be 
 patient wid him annyway, an' sure it could'n' 
 do no good to anny wan fer thim children to 
 know theer pa's a — to know he've been lid into 
 doin' mean by thim." 
 
 So Beth promised and went on her way, 
 pondering these things in her heart. That was 
 "dependent children's day "in the Juvenile Court, 
 
52 JUST FOLKS 
 
 and Beth rather puzzled the judge by the hesi- 
 tancy with which she reported on the cases to 
 which she had been detailed. She didn't seem to 
 know the exact merits of any of them. 
 
 On her way home, she stopped at Henry Street 
 and found, as she had feared to find, the Caseys 
 supperless. 
 
 "If Midget will come to Blue Island Avenue 
 with me," said the contrite Beth, "I'll send back 
 a little 'treat'." 
 
 Midget went. 
 
 "What would you like most of anything?" 
 Beth asked, anticipating a demand for lemon 
 cream pie and determined not to oppose it. 
 
 "Oyster stew!" said Midget, promptly. 
 
 At the store — where, Beth learned afterward, 
 Midget claimed Beth as her "aunt" — they 
 bought a quart of bulk oysters, a bag of crackers, 
 half a pound of butter, and two quarts of 
 milk. 
 
 "Are you sure your ma knows how to make 
 oyster stew ?" Beth asked, as she helped Midget 
 home with her purchases. 
 
 "Oh, yes'm, she know how to make it fine," 
 Midget cried, hopping along happily but at great 
 risk of churning the milk she carried. "An' my 
 pa just love it !" 
 
 Beth stopped stock-still on the sidewalk, and 
 for a mad moment she struggled with the impulse 
 to dump the oysters out in the street. Then the 
 
JUST FOLKS S3 
 
 happiness of the child beside her made her 
 ashamed. 
 
 "I'm just as bad as the charity organizations," 
 she told herself when she had seen Midget safely 
 down the rickety stairs with her "spilly" 
 treasure. "I'd almost let Mary Casey and those 
 children starve rather than feed him." 
 
 That evening when Hart Ferris called, full of 
 eagerness to learn how his intervention had 
 affected the Caseys, Beth surprised him by saying 
 that she must go out. 
 
 "I had to talk to you alone," she explained 
 when they were on the street. "Somehow the 
 things I want to say wouldn't say themselves 
 before dear old Liza Allen — I don't know why, 
 but they wouldn't." 
 
 "And you aren't going to do a thing — even 
 now?" Ferris urged, when Beth had told him. 
 
 "I don't know — " she began feebly. 
 
 "Why, Beth," he said, "the law—" 
 
 She drew her arm a little closer through his in 
 an appealing way that made Ferris look down at 
 her tenderly. 
 
 "This isn't the law," she said. "This is—" 
 
 "Is what?" 
 
 They were passing a street lamp and Ferris 
 paused a moment to scan the earnest little face. 
 
 "I don't know," whispered Beth, "I don't 
 know — the — the gospel, I guess." And then 
 she t51d him about the oysters. "I think — 
 
54 JUST FOLKS 
 
 don't be shocked," she said, "but I think I know 
 how God feels — in a way. It came over me 
 to-night, all of a sudden, when I had resisted 
 my impulse to spill the oysters. You see, Hart, 
 even God can't keep the innocent from suffering 
 with the guilty, or the guilty from enjoying the 
 sun and starshine, same as the pure in heart. 
 Or, if He can, He doesn't. Then why should 
 we — " 
 
IV 
 
 "Don't do it again, my boy," the judge said 
 kindly, dismissing the case of a badly scared 
 youngster arrested for begging street-car trans- 
 fers. "If you didn't know before that it was 
 wrong, you know now." 
 
 Before the dazed boy and his frightened parents 
 could realize that the law was temporarily through 
 with them, the chief probation officer had touched 
 the button at his desk beside the judge's ; a 
 bailiff was directing the dismissed group out the 
 front door of the court room, and another bailiff 
 was ushering a new group in at the side door. 
 
 The departing group was Bohemian — stolid, 
 slow of speech, inclined to be sullen ; the arriving 
 group was Jewish — Russian Jewish — but un- 
 usually animated for that race. A decided stir 
 seemed to come with them into the court room, 
 and the moment they were in, it became appar- 
 ent where the "stir" generated. The prisoner 
 at the bar, the offender against law and order, 
 was a very small boy, with very big, very scared- 
 looking bright black eyes ; he was arraigned for 
 throwing a ball through the store windows of one 
 Karnowitz, on Twelfth Street. But the con- 
 versational energy of the party was vested in the 
 
 ss 
 
56 JUST FOLKS 
 
 prisoner's mother, a wee woman with purply-red 
 cheeks colored by a network of broken veins, 
 beady bright eyes, and a volubility that made 
 her sibilant "s's" sound like escaping steam. 
 
 "Herman," said the judge, consulting the data 
 of the case he held in his hand, "you were 
 arrested for breaking a window in Karnowitz's 
 store." 
 
 Here Karnowitz jumped excitedly into the 
 discussion. He was an Oriental-looking Semite, 
 stoop-shouldered, hook-nosed, gray-bearded — 
 such a Ghetto type as an artist would immediately 
 select for his representativeness and for his 
 pictorial qualities. 
 
 "Yess!" he cried, worming his way through 
 the little crowd of witnesses and court officials 
 to the judge's desk and shaking an expressive 
 Hebraic forefinger under the judge's very nose. 
 "Und how many times I toldt — " 
 
 "I'm talking to Herman," said the judge, re- 
 provingly. "Your turn will come by and by; 
 I'll let you tell your story after I hear his. Why 
 did you do it, Herman ? Don't you know win- 
 dows are expensive, and that it isn't right for 
 you to throw a ball where it may break a window ? 
 Don't you know that, to keep you from the 
 danger of breaking a window, the law says you 
 mustn't play ball in the street ?" 
 
 "Iss it sucha lawss ? He ain'd knowed it iss 
 sucha lawss," began Herman's mother, shrilly. 
 
JUST FOLKS 57 
 
 "In dees coundry iss sucha many lawss — more 
 as Russia ! — we cand't know all dose lawss !" 
 
 The judge turned sharply on the purple- 
 cheeked little woman and rapped on his desk with 
 a ruler to emphasize his words. "I want it 
 understood that I am talking to Herman Rubo- 
 vitz," he said, "and the next person who answers 
 a question I ask Herman will be put out of the 
 court room ! Now Herman — " 
 
 And the questioning went on — patient, kindly, 
 encouraging — till Herman got over his fright 
 and began to tell the court, confidentially, just 
 how it happened. 
 
 The court showed fine understanding of a boy's 
 temptations, but firm respect for the rights of 
 Karnowitz and for the majesty of the law. 
 Then Karnowitz was allowed to tell his troubles, 
 briefly,, and the court reminded him that Ghetto 
 boys have not many places to play ball except in 
 the street, and urged that due leniency be showed 
 to youth, if youth had a will to make amends. 
 
 "Are you sorry, Herman, that you disobeyed 
 the law, and that you broke the window in Mr. 
 Karnowitz's shop ?" Herman nodded. "And 
 will you promise me faithfully that you will work 
 and earn money to pay him for a new window ?" 
 
 "He cand't ! It is lawss for him nod to work," 
 shrilled his mother. 
 
 The judge silenced her with a look. "How 
 old are you, Herman ?" 
 
58 JUST FOLKS 
 
 "I'm going to fourteen by Sebtember." 
 
 "Well, you mustn't wait till September to 
 pay Mr. Karnowitz — you must sell papers or 
 run errands or do something to earn money for 
 that window this summer. Mr. Karnowitz is a 
 poor man — he's had to buy a new window to 
 keep his goods from getting spoiled or stolen — 
 you must pay that money back to him as soon 
 as you can — he needs it. Will you promise ?" 
 Again Herman nodded. " Then I'll put you on 
 probation with Miss Tully ; she'll let me know 
 how you get on, and if you don't keep your prom- 
 ise she'll tell me and have you brought here again. 
 And the next time I can't let you off so easy. 
 Do you understand ? " 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 The buzzer sounded, a bailiff ushering a big 
 group of colored persons appeared in the side 
 door, and another bailiff directed the Rubovitzes 
 and Karnowitz and their needless witnesses and 
 friends out into the front hall, where little Beth 
 Tully, fair-haired and blue-eyed, took charge of 
 Herman and his mother. 
 
 "Where do you live ?" she askedMrs. Rubovitz. 
 
 "By Henry Streedt — twendy-one." 
 
 "Why, I thought you looked familiar!" cried 
 Beth. "I've seen you when I've been to call 
 on the Casey s." 
 
 "Caseys liff by de rear," said Mrs. Rubovitz, 
 with scorn. "We liff by de frondt." 
 
JUST FOLKS 59 
 
 Beth began to scent a caste other than racial 
 and religious. "I am very fond of Mrs. Casey," 
 she said firmly. Mrs. Rubovitz sniffed. Beth 
 turned to Herman. "I'll be over to see you to- 
 morrow, Herman, and we'll talk over what you 
 had better do about earning that money." 
 
 And with that she turned and went back into 
 the court room. Then something smote her 
 suddenly, and she darted out again and into the 
 street after the Rubovitzes. 
 
 "I want you," she said, clutching Mrs. Rubo- 
 vitz by the arm, "to promise me one thing — 
 promise me you won't beat Herman, or let his 
 father beat him ! He's going to do what he can 
 to make this thing right — he's sorry for what 
 happened, and he's going to be more careful. 
 I don't want him whipped." 
 
 Mrs. Rubovitz stiffened. "That iss parendt's 
 beeziness," she began. 
 
 Beth shook her sharply by the arm. "No, it 
 isn't," she said. "You foreign parents think it's 
 the most of your business ; and it isn't. You beat 
 all the spirit out of your children, instead of 
 teaching them what is right. Now, if you beat 
 Herman for this — for being arrested" — she 
 caught the glitter of the beadlike eyes — "oh, 
 yes ! I know you have beaten him for it — but 
 if you do it again — now — when you get home 
 — to-night — or any time — I'm going to take 
 him away from you. Do you hear ?" 
 
60 JUST FOLKS 
 
 There was such fire in the little " p'leece lady's " 
 tones that Mrs. Rubovitz shrank away from 
 her. "Yess," she murmured, "yess — I ain'd 
 goin' to." 
 
 But Herman, staring with wondering big eyes 
 up at the little lady who was standing thus 
 valiantly between him and a fierce whipping, 
 slipped a dirty small hand into hers and squeezed 
 it silently. And Beth knew she had made a 
 friend. 
 
 "I'll bet she beat him anyway," said Liza 
 Allen, with angry scepticism. "Them Roosians 
 is so handy with their beatin's." 
 
 "No, she didn't," Beth rejoined, with spirit, 
 "for I made the Caseys promise to tell me if they 
 heard Herman cry — and I made Herman swear 
 his most solemn and sacred 'swear' to tell me 
 if she had or if his father had. Oh!" Beth's 
 blue eyes flashed fire, "if I couldn't do another 
 thing for these poor children of the foreigners but 
 save them a few of the beatings that are always, 
 always coming to them I'd feel as if my labors 
 were worth while. Every time, as I go through 
 the streets or up into the tenements, I hear that 
 unmistakable cry of a child being whipped, it 
 freezes the very blood in my veins. I don't 
 mean that a child who is too young to reason 
 with ought never to be spanked when it is naughty, 
 but these people beat their children — little and 
 
JUST FOLKS 61 
 
 big — cruelly. The law of this country ought 
 not to allow it." 
 
 "How many Rubovitzes are there?" Hart 
 Ferris's tone was cool, casual, but Beth knew he 
 was trying to lead her from the subject that 
 stirred her to such a trying degree and made her 
 determined little voice quaver pathetically with 
 a great pity and indignation. 
 
 "Seven — small ones," she answered, giving 
 him a grateful, understanding look, "and the 
 parents — Russian Jews. He is what the Ghetto 
 calls a 'yunker,' I think — a buyer and seller 
 of cast-off somethings. And she was a tailoress 
 in the London Ghetto — a refugee like himself — 
 when he married her there. I believe all, or 
 nearly all, the children were born here, though. 
 He's good for nothing, drunken, and cruel. 
 When she asked him for money to pay 
 the rent so they wouldn't get ' set out,' what 
 do you suppose he said ? 'Why should I pay 
 rent to Mis' Shugar?' Mrs. Shugar is the 
 landlady. 'Ain'd I bin in this coundry 
 longer ass Mis' Shugar ? An' I don' own no 
 house'!" 
 
 Ferris laughed. "That's about the average 
 political economy of his kind," he said, "and I'll 
 guarantee he's a citizen and casts his vote, and 
 gets it counted twice, like as not ! Who sup- 
 ports them ?" 
 
 "The mother, if you can call it support," 
 
62 JUST FOLKS 
 
 said Beth, " aided now and then by the Hebrew 
 Charities or by the county. She finishes gar- 
 ments for a sweat shop and earns about sixty 
 cents a day, if she works all day. I don't believe 
 they ever have a meal — a real meal ; the loaf 
 of bread lies on the dirty kitchen table all the 
 time, and the tea-pot boils all day on the stove, 
 and maybe there is a piece of 'smelly' fish, or 
 some scraps of meat with all the juice 'koshered' 
 out of it ; and when one of the children gets 
 hungry he runs in and grabs a bite and runs out 
 again with it in his hand." 
 
 "Them furriners has tur'ble tacky ways !" 
 observed Liza Allen, biting off a thread. Beth 
 and Ferris loved the smugness and severity of 
 her condemnation — her complete unconscious- 
 ness that, viewed from some standpoints they 
 knew, her "ways" were hardly a degree less 
 "tacky" than the ways of the "Roosians." 
 
 The satisfiedness of Liza was never offensive, 
 and never harsh, if you understood her. Rather 
 was it a never-failing delight — yes, and a 
 rebuke ! Liza was complacent about Joe and 
 his "learnin'" and his handsome funeral ; about 
 her flat and its elegant comforts ; about her 
 American birth, and her membership in The 
 Daughters of the Bonny Blue Flag ; she was 
 even complacent about the quality of her 
 dressmaking, and felicitated her customers that 
 they came to her instead of getting their "goods 
 
JUST FOLKS 63 
 
 all cobbled up by some of the folks that calls 
 theirselves dressmakers in these days !" 
 
 She was whipping the seams of a basque now, 
 and Beth was threading needles for her as usual ; 
 while Ferris, who had been discharged from his 
 responsible job of "pullin' bastin's" because he 
 "yanked too hard" and broke the threads, was 
 making a feint of being busy unravelling the 
 bastings Beth had pulled, and winding them 
 carefully on a spool, to be used again. 
 
 The weather was warm now — hot, sometimes, 
 for it was the end of May — and Beth and Ferris 
 might reasonably have been expected to spend the 
 evenings when he came, out of doors. They 
 did sometimes, but oftener it was — to Beth's 
 secret happiness and amusement — Ferris himself 
 who proposed staying in with Liza. Her dis- 
 cussions of current topics — world affairs, and 
 national, and civic — gave him unlimited en- 
 joyment, and copy. 
 
 The fact that Liza seldom stirred far from 
 Maxwell Street, that the travels of her lifetime 
 were comprised in that one memorable flitting 
 from Steubenville to Chicago, that she sat 
 all day and every day, and far into the nights, 
 even Sunday, sometimes — "I don't b'leeve 
 God cares a mite !" she said about this Sabbath- 
 breaking. "Fust time I done it I was plum 
 scared — but, land ! It's like fergettin' yer 
 prayers ; after you done it a couple o' times an' 
 
64 JUST FOLKS 
 
 seen things moves on 'bout the same without 
 your orderin' 'em, it gits so easy you don' notice 
 it" — none of these things kept Liza from com- 
 menting freely and decisively upon matters 
 of the deepest philosophy and the most world- 
 wide importance. She was a real "cracker- 
 barrel sage" in petticoats, and Hart Ferris, 
 with "Mr. Dooley" in mind, was projecting a 
 "signed column" of Liza's wisdom for his 
 paper. 
 
 "Wouldn't it be fine poetic justice," said 
 Beth, when this project was discovered to her, 
 "if, after the way you 'took on' about my being 
 in the slums at all, and my coming to board with 
 Liza in particular, she should turn out to be the 
 fairy-godmother of your writing fortunes ? I 
 tell you, Hart, the real things, worth writing 
 about, are over here, and I'm glad there's some- 
 thing, if it's only I, that brings you over here, 
 where the real things are." 
 
 "The Rubovitzes are likely to give you a good 
 deal to do, I should think," Ferris remarked to 
 Beth, but hoping to "draw out" Liza Allen 
 further on the subject of aliens. 
 
 Yes, Beth thought it more than likely they 
 would. "There's Pa," she began, then checked 
 herself remembering Pa Casey. "Of course," 
 she went on, "I don't know Pa Rubovitz or what 
 his extenuating virtues are — if any ! But on 
 the surface, it looks as if Pa's political opinions, 
 
JUST FOLKS 65 
 
 at least, need readjustment. And there's — 
 Why! Who's that?" 
 
 There were sounds of hastening feet clattering, 
 stumbling, up the dark stairs, and in a moment 
 Liza's sitting-room door burst unceremoniously- 
 open, and Herman Rubovitz stood in the 
 doorway, pale, panting, and wild-eyed. 
 
 "Teacher ! Teacher !" he cried, when he saw 
 Beth. "Come quick ! Our Abey's got a fit an' 
 our ma ain't to home." 
 
 Without waiting even to snatch up her hat, 
 Beth followed the frantic boy, and Ferris followed 
 her. They hurried too fast to talk, but fast as 
 Beth and Ferris went, Herman outran them and 
 left them to finish the last lap of their race un- 
 guided by so much as the echo of his flying heels. 
 
 It was almost dog-day hot this unseasonable 
 May night, and all the Ghetto was out of doors ; 
 some were asleep on door-steps, garbage boxes, 
 and elsewhere ; others sat, talking or silent, as 
 was their nature, dreading the return to stifling 
 sleeping- rooms. The streets were full of children 
 playing. 
 
 Early in the evening, Dewey Casey had laid 
 himself down in the narrow passageway between 
 the tenement he lived in and the one next door, 
 and gone to sleep ; nor was he disturbed by the 
 cursing of those who stumbled over him in the 
 pitchy dark. But presently some one, less re- 
 signed to obstacles than the others, removed 
 
66 JUST FOLKS 
 
 Dewey from the path with no gentle foot, and 
 shrieks of resentment rent the air. 
 
 Mary Casey flew to the rescue and carried 
 Dewey, kicking and screaming, to the top of 
 the stairs which led down from the sidewalk to 
 their alleyway ; there she sat down with him 
 and tried to divert his mind from his injuries 
 by urging on his notice such objects of interest 
 as the teeming little street, gasping for breath 
 on a muggy night, afforded. She was sitting 
 there, about nine o'clock, when the Rubovitz 
 front door was flung open and Herman made a 
 dash for the steps, crying, "Ma ! Where's 
 Ma?" 
 
 " Yer ma ain't here," said Mary Casey, making 
 way for him. "I see her about an hour ago, her 
 an' the two little gurls, an' first they stopped to 
 talk wid Mis' Rosenberg, thin they wint on 
 towards Blue Island Avenoo." 
 
 Herman began to cry. "Abey's dyin'," he 
 sobbed, and fled in the direction of the avenue, 
 where he kept up his futile calling as he sped 
 toward Maxwell Street and Beth. 
 
 "Fer the love o' God!" cried Mary Casey; 
 and gathering up the now sleeping Dewey, 
 she hurried down the steep, creaking stairs into 
 the Stygian blackness in which the lowest step 
 was lost. 
 
 Her knock brought Rachel Rubovitz, a wizened 
 mite of ten, to the door. 
 
JUST FOLKS 6/ 
 
 "What's wrong ?" Mary Casey demanded of 
 her. 
 
 For answer the child pointed to Abey, the 
 youngest Rubovitz, who lay limp and apparently 
 lifeless in a terrible spasm. 
 
 Mary Casey was tolerably familiar with spasms 
 and she made haste to light the oil-stove and set 
 on a kettle of water, which was, she remem- 
 bered, the first thing the doctor always ordered 
 when any of her children had "been took." 
 
 Mrs. Rubovitz, it seemed, had left Abey asleep 
 on the bed in one of the windowless, stifling closets 
 that served the Rubovitzes for bedrooms. Ra- 
 chel was charged to "mind him," and told 
 to give him a drink of milk if he woke up. He 
 had waked, poor little mite, steaming and cross, 
 as he had a right to be, and Rachel had given 
 him the cup of milk her mother left on the kitchen 
 table for that purpose. 
 
 Abey drank it greedily, crying between gulps, 
 and then, "hardly he hadn't it down," Rachel 
 explained, "when he gives a queer noise and 
 goes like that." 
 
 He was still "like that," stark and still, 
 Mary Casey weeping softly over him and crooning 
 to him while she tried to chafe his little rigid 
 limbs, when Beth and Ferris got there. 
 
 It was a picture for a modern Rembrandt, 
 a picture of more compelling human interest 
 than "The School of Anatomy." The Rubovitz 
 
68 JUST FOLKS 
 
 kitchen was dark and dirty, with a kind of an- 
 cient, old-world darkness and dirtiness which 
 seemed to invest the Henry Street cellar with an 
 air as of centuries of grime and poverty. The 
 lamp on the bracket above the sink only faintly 
 lighted the room and the faces which showed 
 so white and anxious against the dusk as they 
 bent over the stark atom of humanity in the 
 wash-tub. 
 
 There was almost an hour of intense battle for 
 that little life before a doctor came — many 
 doctors practise in the Ghetto, but not many 
 live there — and when Ferris finally got back 
 with a man who knew what to do, and could do it, 
 and realized that it was not too late, that Abey 
 might still be saved, he was conscious of an 
 exultation he would never have dreamed possible 
 over a child he had not seen before. The splendid, 
 swelling passion of the saver of life, of the life of 
 a helpless little child in agony, filled his veins with 
 a strange new feeling, and as he mopped his 
 streaming brow and watched the look of life 
 come back into Abey's wee white body, he was 
 aware of a revulsion from sick fear to restored 
 confidence that quite unnerved him. 
 
 He looked around for Beth, and found that 
 with her, too, the reaction had been strong; 
 for when she knew that Abey would live, she 
 had sat weakly down, faint with the fright 
 
JUST FOLKS 69 
 
 that comes to us after a danger has been 
 passed. 
 
 "It isn't his teeth," said the man of medicine, 
 when he had pried open Abey's mouth and 
 examined his gums. "What has he had to 
 eat?" 
 
 Rachel told about the milk. Was there any 
 left ? No, Abey had drained the cup. Where 
 had they bought it ? At Goldstein's store 
 on Henry Street. 
 
 To Ferris the doctor murmured something 
 about "formalin," and gave Abey an antidote. 
 Then he signed to Ferris to go with him, and the 
 two men made their way to the top of the creaking 
 stairs and along staring Henry Street — fully 
 informed of all that had happened to Abey — 
 to the store. 
 
 The store was closed, but Goldstein answered 
 the doctor's knocking and came to the door 
 through which, the moment he opened it, mingled 
 smells, all bad, rushed assaultingly. Barrels of 
 salt fish stank abominably, and mingled with 
 their dominant smell was an indescribable accom- 
 paniment of kerosene, sauerkraut, rank vinegar, 
 musty flour, decaying fruits and vegetables, and 
 hideous cheese. 
 
 "I want to buy some milk," the doctor said. 
 Goldstein struck a match and lighted the lamp 
 which hung from the low ceiling. "Nod much 
 off milk iss left," he said sourly. 
 
jo JUST FOLKS 
 
 "Where do you get your milk?" the doctor 
 asked. 
 
 Goldstein was half asleep, but he was not to be 
 caught napping. Meddling persons had come 
 around before, inquiring into the condition of his 
 goods, and he resented it ; it was part of the un- 
 just persecution of the chosen people, he felt, 
 and racial as well as personal duty demanded 
 that he frustrate these persons if he could. 
 
 "By a milkman — hees name I do nod know," 
 said Israel. 
 
 "I'll give you till ten o'clock to-morrow morn- 
 ing to remember his name," the doctor replied. 
 " If you can't — the police will have to help you." 
 
 Then, in a flood of recollection, it came over 
 Israel who that milkman was. 
 
 Somehow, as Ferris said, when you have 
 fought for the life of a kid — even if your part 
 of the fight has only been in running like mad 
 for the doctor — and have won, you can't ever 
 feel quite ordinary and indifferent about that 
 kid any more. You kind of want him to thrive 
 and prosper and grow up into a good kid if 
 only to prove to you and to the world how well 
 worth your effort to save him he was. 
 
 Ferris felt that way about Abey, and about 
 the Rubovitzes as Abey's kin. He wrote a story 
 for the paper about the formalin poisoning, and 
 the story — doubtless because he was writing 
 
JUST FOLKS 71 
 
 intimately, from a particular case, and not 
 broadly, in generalities — was very appealing, 
 and started a fresh wave of indignation and re- 
 form directed against the unscrupulous dealers 
 who risk the lives of little children. And the 
 managing editor praised the story, and said Ferris 
 ought to be given more of that sort of thing to 
 do. "It's in the air and people like it." And 
 two women's clubs asked Ferris to come and tell 
 them about the best ways to crusade for pure 
 milk. Ferris didn't relish this very much, but 
 it was a "good card" for him with the managing 
 editor. He didn't know much about the milk 
 supply, but he set himself to find out ; and when 
 he had learned something about it, he found it 
 so interesting that he could stand up and talk 
 to the women's clubs about it with no sense of 
 being "dinky," as he had at first declared he 
 should feel, and with an earnestness which moved 
 the women to do real things for the cause. 
 
 Thus Ferris was finding out for himself, as 
 each of us must if we are ever to know it at all, 
 the one particular wherein "the slums" — so- 
 called — contradict rather than confirm a general 
 principle of human nature. Usually, where we 
 go expecting to get rather than to give, we get 
 least. But not so in the slurns. No one gets 
 anything appreciable from the slums, who goes 
 there full of the idea of w T hat he is about to give 
 them. Liza Allen had begun to show Ferris 
 
72 JUST FOLKS 
 
 what the slums could give him, and Abey Rubo 
 vitz — no more unconsciously than Liza — had 
 continued the demonstration. 
 
 When the excitement about Abey's "fit" 
 had died down — and perhaps you think there 
 wasn't envy in Henry Street, where fits are 
 common, to see how much was made of Abey's ! 
 — Ferris began to feel almost as much stared 
 in the face by the Rubovitz necessities as if he 
 and not Pa were responsible for the family wel- 
 fare. For, of course, when you've helped to 
 save a baby from death by poisoned food, you 
 hate to see him die from no food at all ! 
 
 A fellow learned a lot of things when he found 
 himself in the position of guide, philosopher, 
 and friend to a family like the Rubovitzes. 
 
 First of all, there was Herman's promise to earn 
 the money to pay Karnowitz. Ferris investi- 
 gated and found that Karnowitz was more than 
 able to wait. But when he reported this to Beth, 
 that small person shook her head and murmured 
 something about "the law." 
 
 "Herman broke the window, and he promised 
 to pay," she said. "The law takes no cognizance 
 of the fact that Herman needs bread and Karno- 
 witz owns three houses on Twelfth Street. It 
 is bad for Herman to be hungry, but it would be 
 worse for him to have our aid in evading the law." 
 , "Oh, hang the law!" said Ferris, crossly. 
 
 Beth opened her blue eyes wide in well- 
 
JUST FOLKS 73 
 
 simulated surprise. "Why, Hart Ferris !" she 
 said. 
 
 "You know what I mean !" he retorted, 
 "The law's all right — in the abstract — I sup- 
 pose. But when you get down to cases it doesn't 
 ever seem to fit." 
 
 "No," Beth agreed soberly, "it doesn't. But 
 we can't tell Herman that — not yet !" 
 
 So Herman was relentlessly supervised in the 
 weekly handing over of his newspaper pennies 
 to Karnowitz until the truly awful sum of four 
 dollars had been paid. 
 
 Meantime, of course, Ferris was not only 
 slipping Mrs. Rubovitz a dollar or two every 
 time he came, but he was telling his friends about 
 her and getting here a bit and there a bit, to 
 help her. He "passed the hat" in the city room 
 when the rent had to be paid, and raged silently 
 as he gave the money into Mrs. Shugar's own 
 hands, to think how complacently Pa would 
 accept it as America's due to him. 
 
 Like a good many other earnest persons bat- 
 tling with pain and want and aspiring to find a 
 panacea, Ferris was glad oftentimes — when 
 even individual cure seemed beyond hope — to 
 grasp at the merest alleviation. 
 
 About the middle of June, an alleviation pre- 
 sented itself. It was called "The Greatest 
 
74 JUST FOLKS 
 
 Show on Earth or Elsewhere!" and Ferris, 
 knowing the chief press agent, got "quite a 
 bunch" of tickets. 
 
 He was more delighted than Beth had ever 
 seen him, for he was going to take Liza Allen 
 and a whole flock of Rubovitzes and Caseys. 
 Liza had been to a circus once in Steubenville, 
 with Adam Spear, forty years ago, but none of the 
 Caseys or Rubovitzes had even the faintest idea 
 what a circus was like. 
 
 In vain, except for Beth's secret amusement, 
 Ferris "lined up" his prospective party before 
 the hoardings on Blue Island Avenue and pointed 
 out tigers, and elephants, and giraffes, and rhi- 
 noceroses, and performing seals. The "fauna" 
 of Henry Street was limited to horse, dog, cat, 
 and butcher-shop chicken, and Henry Street 
 stood unmoved before the lithographs of creatures 
 it could not comprehend. 
 
 "Wait till they see them!" Ferris said to 
 Beth. Also, alas, in vain ! 
 
 The party arrived early, to inspect the menag- 
 erie at leisure and get back to their seats before 
 the " grand entry." Speechless they stood before 
 the long line of elephants swinging their restless 
 trunks and opening wide their mouths in frequent 
 invitations for small peanuts. Presently, "What 
 hangs down?" whispered Benny Rubovitz to 
 Beth, in a tone more alarmed than merely in- 
 quiring. 
 
JUST FOLKS 75 
 
 The wolves and bears and sundry other animals 
 passed more or less unnoticed, as "dogs" of 
 strange breeds. Little Rosie Rubovitz, next 
 older than Abey, was in Ferris's arms and, at 
 sight of the lions, her lovely little face dimpled 
 with pleasure. "Kittie ! Kittie!" she cried, 
 and reached out her tiny hand as if to "pat." 
 It was Mollie Casey who capped the climax, 
 though. Turning from the camels, with a look 
 of deep disgust, she said to Beth, "I don't 
 like thim very well, do you?" 
 
 "I'm afraid," said Beth to Ferris in an under- 
 tone, " that our guests are a little shy on natural 
 history, to get a great deal out of this." 
 
 "Natural history, nothing!" Ferris returned, 
 with spirit. "They're shy on the commonest 
 rights of childhood — that's what they're shy 
 on ! 
 
 But, notwithstanding their acceptance of danc- 
 ing elephants and band-playing seals as ordi- 
 nary — for all the children knew, these were the 
 regular pastimes of the strange animals in their 
 native haunts — Ferris's party had an exceedingly 
 good time at the circus. They loved the 
 "purrade," shrieked at the clowns, and rose — 
 the boys of them — to a perfect frenzy of excite- 
 ment over some of the acrobatics, and particu- 
 larly over the men who rode, standing, two horses 
 at once, while driving a long string of others 
 ahead. 
 
76 JUST FOLKS 
 
 "Gee !" breathed Johnny Casey, standing up 
 and -watching, watching, with straining, staring 
 eyes. "That's something to do — all right, all 
 right!" 
 
 "I'm glad 'tain't me that has to earn my livin' 
 that way," observed Liza, devoutly. She didn't 
 say much else, but Beth and Ferris both knew the 
 greatest pleasure she got out of the circus was 
 feeling sorry for the "folks" that were obliged 
 to be in it. 
 
 During an interval when the clowns were the 
 chief performers and the children were laughing 
 hysterically, Liza seemed lost in thought so 
 serious that Beth asked her suggestively, "What 
 is it?" 
 
 "I was thinkin' 'bout Mis' Nation," said Liza, 
 abstractedly. 
 
 "Mis' Who?" 
 
 "Carrie Nation." One of the clowns was im- 
 personating Carrie with her hatchet. "She's 
 a consid'rable younger 'n' spryer woman'n I 
 took her to be." 
 
 " I'm afraid it wasn't a very successful party," 
 said Ferris to Beth when he was bidding her 
 good night at the top of Liza Allen's dark stairs. 
 
 "It was a very successful party," Beth assured 
 him, with a tender little emphasis of her own 
 sweet kind, "and don't you ever doubt it. It's 
 no sign of failure because they didn't get exactly 
 
JUST FOLKS 77 
 
 what you thought they'd get out of it. Joy 
 is a various commodity, dear. And don't you 
 ever tell Liza it wasn't really Carrie Nation she 
 saw. It would break her heart!" 
 
 When Herman's debt to Karnowitz was paid, 
 school was out and Ferris undertook to see what 
 he could do about getting Herman a permit to 
 work at some slightly safer and surer calling than 
 "flipping" Halsted Street cars selling newspapers. 
 Herman would be fourteen in September, and 
 Ferris apprehended no difficulty in getting him 
 a permit from the state factory inspector. But 
 Ferris, being a newspaper man, ought to have 
 known better. A wave of outraged public senti- 
 ment had recently hit the always indefatigable 
 office of the factory inspector very hard, and zeal 
 for the saving of little children had mounted on 
 the crest of the wave to frenzy. As must happen, 
 doubtless, when any fine reform is to be carried 
 through, a great deal of unnecessary and un- 
 discriminating rigor bore heavily upon many 
 who might well have been spared. 
 
 Herman was not fourteen, and he couldn't 
 have a permit. That was all there was to it ! 
 The inspector was firm. 
 
 "He iss fourdeen by Sebtember t'ird," urged 
 Mrs. Rubovitz. "He cand't go to school no 
 more before he iss fourdeen — there iss no more 
 school before he iss fourdeen. How can he go to 
 
78 JUST FOLKS 
 
 school till he iss fourdeen,~when it iss no more 
 school before he iss fourdeen ? He's fourdeen 
 by Sebtember t'ird. It iss no more school 
 before Sebtember t'ird ! How can — " 
 
 "That will do !" yelled the inspector, trying to 
 stem the torrent of language which was increasing 
 in volume and velocity until a catastrophe 
 threatened. But the permit was not forth- 
 coming. 
 
 "Sucha lawss!" declared Mrs. Rubovitz to 
 Ferris as they came away. "Bedtter we might 
 have staid by Roosia — there at leasd one can 
 vork!" 
 
 Ferris made a faint effort to placate, to explain, 
 but Mrs. Rubovitz was not inclined for peace. 
 
 "Und look at dose schoolss !" she cried, 
 "Whad do dey teach by dem that iss so much 
 bedtter ass to vork ? Always my Rosie comes 
 home und brings a leaf, und 'Look, ma, by de 
 fairies' carped!' she sayss. Dey learn dem to 
 oh ! an' vonder by everyt'ing. Whad way iss 
 dat ? I ask you. Do I vish my Rosie by some- 
 body's house to bring und dat she should oh ! 
 und vonder about everyt'ing, like a child dat's 
 never seen nothing to home ? Und las' vinter 
 dey tried to gif de childerns bat's [baths] und my 
 Jonah comes home und 'Ma, I shouldt be vashed ! ' 
 he sayss, und how de teacher tried to have him 
 scrubbed all over he tells me, bud he screamed 
 und vould not ; und she says come home und tell 
 
JUST FOLKS 79 
 
 me he must be bat'd, und I sayss 'You can tell 
 her I chust god you sewed ub for de vinter und 
 I ain'd goin' to take off your clodes before it iss 
 spring, nod for no one.' Sucha lawss !" 
 
 "And you can't really blame her for getting 
 mad," said Ferris, telling Beth about his ex- 
 perience, "for it's all in the point of view, and to 
 Mrs. Rubovitz's present viewpoint our benevo- 
 lent laws are harder to bear than Russian tyr- 
 anny." 
 
 Beth didn't say anything — just narrowed her 
 blue eyes in their funny little squint, and looked 
 at Ferris. He was learning fairly fast, she de- 
 cided. But she was surprised, a few nights later, 
 when she had a new way of measuring just what 
 Hart Ferris had learned from Maxwell and Henry 
 Streets. 
 
 Back in the spring evenings by Liza's lamp, 
 Liza had begun to show at times a lagging list- 
 lessness that was most unusual with her. And 
 one night the secret of it had come out : Joe's 
 fun'ral was most paid for ! A week or two 
 more of unwearying work, a couple more pay- 
 ments, and the splendid tribute for which she 
 had been toiling for five years would become a 
 memory — a memory only, after having been 
 an ever-present incentive through all those years 
 it had redeemed from loneliness. 
 
 "Dunno how it'll seem — workin' along fer 
 
80 JUST FOLKS 
 
 just rent an' vittles," said Liza, admitting her 
 quandary to Beth and Ferris. "I ain't never 
 done it in my hull life. Even when Joe was took 
 I wasn't so bad off, fer I had his fun'ral to work 
 fer. But the way things are gittin' now, I don't 
 see nothin' ahead." 
 
 Beth didn't know quite how much Ferris 
 appreciated this point of view of Liza's, but she 
 was to find out. He appeared at Maxwell 
 Street, one evening in July, so evidently bursting 
 with suppressed excitement that he at once 
 communicated to Beth his fever of anxiety to get 
 out of the house and away where private talk 
 was possible. 
 
 "What is it ?" she begged, almost the moment 
 they were out of Liza's hearing. 
 
 "Beth!" he said — and after she had heard 
 his news she loved him for the tremor in his 
 voice, for the feeling it betrayed — "Beth, dear, 
 what do you think ? I've found Adam Spear !" 
 
 "Adam Spear?" 
 
 "Yes ! Liza's Adam Spear, who left her forty 
 years ago for sticking to her worthless brother 
 Joe." 
 
 "Why, Hart, however — where? Now don't 
 tell me he owns a lumber-yard and rides in a 
 limousine." 
 
 "Better than that!" Ferris's voice was very 
 "trembly," and he squeezed hard the small hand 
 he had drawn through his arm. "Better than 
 
JUST FOLKS 8 1 
 
 that — for Liza, dear ! He's poor and old and 
 homeless and decrepit. Won't she be happy with 
 him ? And hasn't he come back to her in the 
 nick of time ?" 
 
 Then he told her about finding Adam. "When 
 Liza first told us about him," he said, "I had a 
 queer, 'kid notion' how romantic it would be if 
 he should come back — now that Joe's dead and 
 his funeral paid for — and make things up to her 
 for all the past, in some fairy-tale way. Then I 
 laughed at myself for even thinking such a By- Joe 
 melodrama could ever happen in real life, and 
 forgot all about Adam Spear, until to-day, when 
 I went out to Hegewisch to look up a 'murder 
 mystery.' I didn't find any very exciting evi- 
 dences of a murder, or a mystery, but I found an 
 old man who does odd jobs about a carpenter 
 shop, who was said to ' know 's much about it 's 
 anybody.' I guess he did, but it wasn't much. 
 He was a gabby old party, and to get out of 
 him what I wanted, I had to let him tell me about 
 everything he knew. Somewhere in the auto- 
 biography, I caught 'Steubenville,' and kind o' 
 'came to.' 'What did you say your name was ?' 
 I asked him. And when he said 'Spear — Adam 
 Spear,' well, Beth, you should have seen Your 
 Only True Love, here ! I guess for a minute 
 Adam thought I was crazy. ' Liza Allen's beau ? ' 
 I cried, almost pouncing on him. 'Well, I 
 uster be,' he admitted, without any emotion that 
 
82 JUST FOLKS 
 
 I could see. 'Are you — are you — married ? ' 
 I hastened to ask. No, he wasn't, 'ner hadn't 
 never been. Women folks is all right fer some, 
 but if you kin git along without 'em they're 
 more bother'n they're worth.' " 
 
 Ferris looked down at Beth. He wanted to see 
 her "sniff." 
 
 "I hope you know a good bluff when you see 
 one," she said briefly. 
 
 "I do," he answered, "and what's more, I 
 know better than to call it. I used to think it was 
 smart to call a fellow's bluff — I know better now." 
 
 Beth smiled appreciatively up at him. "And 
 so ?" she said. 
 
 "And so I told him about Liza, and about 
 Joe's death, and — " 
 
 "When's he coming ?" 
 
 "Well, I think that with a little urging — to 
 encourage the bluff — he would have come to- 
 night. But I thought I'd better wait and ask you 
 what your guess about Liza is." 
 
 "Could you get him to-morrow ?" Beth asked 
 quickly. 
 
 "Is that your guess ?" 
 
 Beth was quiet for a moment, then answered 
 with a nod. "If you can call it a guess," she 
 said presently, and her tone was very soft, her 
 manner full of self-searching thoughtfulness. 
 "Liza's a woman, and it's hardly guessing — with 
 women." 
 
JUST FOLKS 83 
 
 There was a wistful light in Ferris's eyes. 
 "Then the men who fail of success don't fail of 
 everything, do they ? " 
 
 Beth shook her head. 
 
 "It's a world of compensations, isn't it?" 
 said Ferris, looking up at the friendly stars. 
 "And everything's in the point of view." 
 
Having found Adam, Hart Ferris felt that all 
 there remained to be done was to help plan the 
 details of "a nice little wedding." 
 
 But Beth eyed him in surprise that one who 
 had been under her teaching so long should still 
 know so little. "Wedding?" she said, "why, 
 they aren't even engaged !" 
 
 "But you said you were sure that Liza would 
 want him," Ferris urged. 
 
 "I know I did ! I know she does — but you 
 don't suppose she'll let him find it out right away, 
 do you ?" 
 
 It was Ferris's turn to look amazed. "Right 
 away ?" he echoed uncomprehendingly. "Why, 
 they were engaged 'way back in sixty-something- 
 or-other !" 
 
 "An engagement is outlawed after fourteen 
 years," observed Beth, promptly. 
 
 "Well," sighed Ferris, "I hope they don't 
 want to wait around for forty years more before 
 they get married." 
 
 "I don't think they will," Beth assured him, 
 "but you must give them time to court. Liza's a 
 woman, and I don't believe women change very 
 
 8 4 
 
JUST FOLKS 85 
 
 much between seventeen and seventy. Liza 
 makes wrappers for the Ghettoites, at fifty cents 
 'fer the makin',' but she's a coquette to the core 
 for all of that and her white hair, and Adam'll 
 have to 'set up to' her, unless I'm much mis- 
 taken." 
 
 "I thought she'd be crazy to get him back — 
 now that Joe's funeral's paid for." 
 
 " So she will be — but she won't let him find 
 it out too soon to spoil the interest. Of course 
 she'll marry him, and support him, and give him 
 the last drop of her poor old heart's blood, if he 
 needs or wants it. But she'll make him 'walk 
 chalk,' first." 
 
 "Oh!" said Ferris — convinced, but not en- 
 lightened. 
 
 "A woman's got to have her way some time — 
 or think she's having it," Beth observed sagely, 
 "and, as Liza herself would say, 'Them as has 
 it before, ain't half so likely to be standin' 
 out fer it afterwards.'" 
 
 She was right. As old Adam Spear had 
 bluffed to Ferris about "women folks bein' all 
 right fer some ; but if you kin git along without 
 'em, they're more bother'n they're worth," 
 so Liza bluffed to Beth when Beth told her. 
 
 "I ain't surprised he never married," was 
 Liza's first remark after Beth's story had come 
 tumbling excitedly out, "he was awful cut up 
 'bout me — an' then ! wouldn't nobody but an 
 
86 JUST FOLKS 
 
 awful stiddy woman ever have tackled Adam 
 Spear — an' he wa'n't never one to keer much 
 about mere stiddiness, less'n it had some ginger 
 'long with it — which most stiddy women lacks 
 poor things !" It was evident from Liza's man- 
 ner that while she might plead guilty to some 
 "stiddiness," it was the ginger that was her pride. 
 
 "I told him," ventured Ferris, almost persuaded 
 by Liza's magnificent nonchalance that she 
 didnH really care, "that I thought you'd be — 
 willing for him to — to call." 
 
 Liza bit off a thread and made a new knot on 
 the end of it. "Oh, I don' mind — if he's set 
 on it" she said. 
 
 Accordingly, it then became Ferris's delicate 
 task to see Adam Spear and appeal to his chiv- 
 alry with an account of Liza's intense eagerness 
 to see her old beau again. 
 
 "Well," Adam agreed at last, yielding hand- 
 somely, "when you put it that way, does seem's 
 if I'd kind of ought to go." 
 
 So he went. Ferris took him, one evening. 
 He and Beth had planned how they might slip 
 away and leave the old folks alone to get over their 
 explanations and to commence their courting, 
 but Liza forestalled Beth's amiable intention 
 by saying: "Now, I don' want no foolishness ! 
 You two jest set right here an' act 's if nothin' 
 had happened. I don't intend to have Adam 
 Spear a-palaverin' 'round me an' makin' out 
 
JUST FOLKS 87 
 
 how I've blasted his life, an' the like o' that. 
 Course I'm sorry fer him fer bein' sich a fool's he 
 was — but 'tain't goin' to help matters now to 
 tell him of it!" 
 
 And Adam had similarly checked Ferris's plan. 
 "I hope she ain't turned out to be one o' these 
 here hystericky women," he murmured as they 
 neared Maxwell Street; "I alius did hate fer a 
 woman to take on over me. Don't you go off an' 
 leave me, young fella — an' if she begins to git 
 weepy, or to hold it agin me that I didn't marry 
 her, I tell you, I won't stay!" Thus adjured, 
 Beth and Ferris chaperoned the meeting. 
 
 About six o'clock on the appointed evening, 
 Beth came in from her round of visiting juvenile 
 delinquents and dependents, and found Liza 
 kneeling on the floor before the kitchen table, 
 awkwardly wielding the flat-iron over her weird- 
 looking " horns" of front hair; Liza's method of 
 crimping was to wet her hair, wind it on large 
 steel pins, and iron it dry — a troublesome 
 method to which she did not resort except 
 for especial occasions. And Liza did not like to 
 admit that this was a special occasion. She 
 scrambled to her feet guiltily and confronted 
 Beth defiantly. "I alius have to crimp my hair 
 when I've washed my head," she began at once, 
 as if Beth had questioned her; "otherwise I'm 
 a sight to behold." Beth wondered what excuse 
 Liza would offer for wearing her good dress 
 
88 JUST FOLKS 
 
 on a Wednesday evening — for of course she'd 
 wear it, and of course she wouldn't admit why. 
 But the excuse was forthcoming. "Declare to 
 goodness," cried Liza, raising her right arm and 
 disclosing a gaping worn place which Beth had 
 been noting since Monday morning, "if this 
 wrapper ain't a-droppin' off me ! I'll set right 
 down, now, an' mend it while I think of it." 
 And "set" she did — but she put on her good 
 dress before "settin'," although it was a "stuff" 
 dress, and the night was warm. She wore her 
 "broach," too, and her apron with the crochet 
 edge. And when she had gone thus far, she 
 seemed to think candor the best policy; for 
 "I guess Adam Spear'll see that a woman with 
 sperrit ain't got to be hitched to no man, to git 
 along in this world !" she remarked. 
 
 For the occasion, too, all sewing was put by, 
 and Liza was reading The News, like a lady of 
 elegant leisure, when Adam was ushered in. 
 
 "Well, I declare — Adam Spear !" she greeted 
 him, laying down her paper, taking off her 
 "specs," and putting on a casualness which 
 would have deceived the astutest man. 
 
 "Howdy, Liza," Adam answered awkwardly. 
 
 "Evenin', Mr. Ferris," said Liza, looking past 
 Adam as if he were the merest incident and mo- 
 mentary interest in him had ceased. "Won't 
 ye both set?" she asked formally. Adam 
 took the farthest chair. 
 
JUST FOLKS 89 
 
 "I was jest," observed Liza, taking up the 
 paper she had laid down, "a-readin' 'bout some 
 doin's they bin havin' to Gettysburg. You was 
 in the war, wasn't you, Adam ? Was you to 
 Gettysburg?" 
 
 Adam gasped. "Why, sure I was !" he said 
 presently, when he could ejaculate, "an' got 
 wownded in the leg — an' you made me some 
 night-shirts, soon's you heard I was in the hors- 
 pital." 
 
 "Why, so I did," said Liza, as if with an effort 
 of memory, "though we was on diffrunt sides." 
 
 "Well, the war's over now," observed Adam, 
 cheerfully, " an' I guess you wa'n't never enough 
 of a rebel to hurt nothin'." 
 
 "I b'long to the Daughters o' the Bonny Blue 
 Flag !" declared Liza, defiantly. 
 
 "An' I b'long to the G.A.R.," said Adam, 
 handling his coat lapel where he wore the bronze 
 button of the Union's defenders; "but law ! if 
 we was able to fergit our diffrunces in '65, seems 
 like we might make out to put up with 'em in 
 this year o' grace !" 
 
 "Princ'ples," remarked Liza, severely, "ain't 
 strong in the young as they be when you've 
 l'arned how much they stan' fer." 
 
 Ferris and Beth looked at each other a little 
 apprehensively. Liza's tone was so sharp that, 
 for a moment, they could hardly realize she was 
 only fabricating this barrier in the course of true 
 
9 o JUST FOLKS 
 
 love, to "make things interestin'," as she would 
 have said. 
 
 "How Cupid does love hurdles" Ferris re- 
 marked thoughtfully to Beth when he had a 
 chance to talk it over with her. " If he can't 
 find a ready-made Capulet-Montague feud, he'll 
 send a poor old doddeky pair of victims like this 
 harking back to the Civil War for a difference — 
 so they can have the joy of bridging it !" 
 
 "I hear," said Mary Casey, " you've a weddin' 
 comin' off at your house." 
 
 "We have," answered Beth; "isn't it inter- 
 esting ?" 
 
 Mary looked dubious. "Well, I dunno," 
 she said. " Seems t' me if a woman have man- 
 aged t' git along widout a man to her time o' 
 life, she might make out alone to the ind. Min is 
 a tur'ble lot o' trouble t' break in — an' I don' see 
 but what her ole fella's like to die before she gits 
 him so's she kin stan' his ways — leavin' her wid 
 all her trouble fer nothin'. Beats all — what a 
 woman'll undertake ! " 
 
 Mary had come over to the Juvenile Court to 
 wait for Beth and "walk a piece" with her. 
 She had something to say that she didn't care 
 to say before her children — who were always 
 under foot when Beth was there — nor yet 
 before Liza Allen — who was always "mixin' in" 
 
JUST FOLKS 91 
 
 when Mary went to her house to see Beth. So 
 they had to have recourse to the streets — just as 
 the people of Maxwell and Henry Streets must 
 nearly always do when they wish privacy. 
 
 "Sure," Mary hastened to explain, after her 
 seemingly pessimistic remark about "min" and 
 marriage, "I belave 'tis in the nature of ivry 
 woman t' want a man t' try her hand on. All of 
 us belaves oursilves born min-tamers — an' none 
 of us iver lose the notion, though some of us 
 kapes tryin' diffrunt min, lookin' fer success 
 wid wan out o' the lot, an' some kapes tryin' the 
 same man over an' over — like me. But I s'pose 
 it ain't in the nature of anny woman t' be willin' 
 t' die widout seein' what she kin do t' rayduce 
 wan man to a state of daycincy." 
 
 This seemed to bring Mary in due course to 
 the object of her visit. " 'Tis about Ang'la Ann," 
 she said — and turned to Beth, who was begin- 
 ning to know Mary well enough not to be sur- 
 prised at the quickness with which the glint of 
 shrewd humor had died out of her face and been 
 succeeded by a look of deep anxiousness. 
 
 "What about her?" 
 
 "Well — she 've got a rid skirt — " 
 
 "A red skirt?" 
 
 " She 've bin crazy fer wan — mebbe ye didn' 
 know — an' I couldn' give 'er no money t' git 
 wan, 'count of her pa not workin'. An' she 
 was tur'ble down-hearted 'bout it. Night before 
 
92 JUST FOLKS 
 
 last, she'd a bundle wid 'er whin she come home, 
 an' tried t' snake it in widout me seein' it. 
 ' What's that ?' I sez. An', 'Oh, nothin' !' she 
 sez. I didn't make no effort t' urge 'er, but 
 yistiddy, whin she was gon' t' work, I looked an' 
 foun' it under her mattrass — an' it was a new 
 rid skirt. 'Wheer did ye git that ?' I asked 'er, 
 last avenin' — an' first she wouldn' tell me. 
 Then she said one o' the fellas t' wheer she work 
 give it to her — an' she kind o' let out that he's 
 wan that Stan's up to her consid'rable." 
 
 Mary paused and looked at Beth, as if to see 
 how shocked she was. But Beth, who was 
 thinking hard, said nothing for a moment, and 
 Mary plunged on. 
 
 "Ain't it tur'ble ?" she cried. "I toP Ang'la 
 she must take it right back — but she wouldn'. 
 'He's the only wan that keer enough about me 
 to keer if I'm shabby er daycint !' she sez. 'I 
 can't niver go no place ner have no fun,' she sez, 
 'because I ain't got nothin' fit t' wear. He's 
 sorry for me — an' he give me the skirt — an' 
 I ain't goin' t' take it back, I don' keer what you 
 say ! ' I couldn' do nothin' wid her, Miss Tully — 
 an' I'm that onaisy 'bout her I'm most out o' 
 me min'." 
 
 "I know," said Beth, nodding her head briskly. 
 "She can't have it, of course. I'll see if I can't 
 make her understand." 
 
 "Will ye, now?" cried Mary, gratefully. 
 
JUST FOLKS 93 
 
 " Poor little t'ing ! She 've no idare how I do hate 
 to have her give it up — ner what harm he may- 
 mane in givin' it. Ain't it awful, Miss Tully, 
 how the young has to be always unbelavein' of 
 the love that do keer most fer theer good, an' 
 riddy t' belave in anny wan that'll spake fer 
 theer plisure ?" 
 
 That night Beth went over to see Angela Ann 
 and to take her out for a walk. Angela Ann was 
 sixteen, and pretty. She was slight and full of 
 grace. Her hands and feet were small and 
 shapely. Her big Irish-blue eyes were fringed 
 with curling lashes of extraordinary length. 
 Her skin was milk-white (when it was clean) and 
 satin-soft ; all the Casey children had exquisite 
 skin. And she had dimples in her cheeks, like 
 her pa's. Her hair was thick and of a rich chest- 
 nut color, and she took pretty good care of it, 
 considering her pitifully limited facilities. Angela 
 Ann liked to "be nice"; she liked to go to the 
 baths on Fourteenth Street, and she did, when 
 she could spare the nickel. She never looked 
 particularly pretty, because she was ungroomed 
 and grotesquely dressed ; but when you got to 
 know her, you were often conscious, as you looked 
 at her, of figuring what a remarkably pretty 
 girl she would be with half a chance. She had 
 figured it, too, of course. 
 
 But poor Angela had gone to work when she 
 was twelve, as cash-girl. After a brief appren- 
 
94 JUST FOLKS 
 
 ticeship at that, she became a bundle wrapper. 
 When she was fourteen, she was pasting labels 
 on a patent medicine. Soon thereafter she had 
 transferred her operations to a cheap mail order 
 concern that advertised gold rings for thirty- 
 nine cents. Presently she was back again at 
 bundle wrapping. She had no ability, no pros- 
 pects — she drifted from job to job, squeezing in, 
 unchallenged, at rush seasons and being re- 
 morselessly let off the moment it became pos- 
 sible to weed the unfit from the fit. And all 
 this time she brought her pay envelopes home 
 untouched, receiving back from her mother what 
 could be spared — for carfare in bad weather ; 
 for an occasional five cents to add a bakery deli- 
 cacy to the bread and meat she carried from home 
 for lunch ; and for a pair of cheap shoes when the 
 ragged old ones promised a spell of sickness un- 
 less they were replaced. If she achieved a ribbon 
 for her hair or her neck, a ten-cent string of blue 
 beads when all the girls were wearing them, or a 
 bunch of roses for the hat she bought out of a 
 sidewalk bin on Halsted Street, it was at the 
 price of carfare and lunch money. She had 
 never bought a dress, nor even a shirt-waist ; her 
 clothing always came through some chance 
 charity and seldom or never bore any relation to 
 her desires. Did she long for a tan jacket ? 
 The coat that eventually came her way was sure 
 to be a black ulster. Did she crave a red skirt ? 
 
JUST FOLKS 95 
 
 The only skirt that her more prosperous aunt 
 Maggie could afford to give away was bound to 
 be green or purple. Did she dream of a "peeka- 
 boo" waist ? Alas ! peekaboos never seemed to 
 get into the cast-off bundles, and she had to 
 summon what grace she could to wear a gray 
 flannel or a brown madras, with long sleeves. 
 Ordinarily, Angela Ann bore these outrageous 
 fortunes with a heroism no less great than that 
 which has got some folks a statue in the public 
 parks. But the most heroic undoubtedly have 
 "off times," seasons of strong distaste for the 
 hero's job ; and Angela Ann, it seemed, had 
 come to one of these intervals of revolt. Beth 
 wondered, as she went along teeming, sweltering 
 Henry Street toward the flight of steep, creaking 
 steps leading down to the Caseys' basement, how 
 she could summon stern morality enough to lec- 
 ture Angela on the hideousness of taking a red 
 skirt "off'n a fella" — yet it must be done, of 
 course ! And she must do it. 
 
 They went over to Halsted Street — she and 
 Angela — and walked slowly up to Madison on 
 the east side of the street where, for some occult 
 reason, the five-cent theatre does not flourish. 
 From this comparatively sedate side, they looked 
 over to the gaudy other side where penny arcades 
 and saloons with free vaudeville, and nickelo- 
 deons, and gaudy Greek candy parlors, vie with 
 the groggeries and the pawnshops in number. 
 
96 JUST FOLKS 
 
 As they walked, Angela looked across, and Beth 
 talked — trying to point out the short and easy 
 step from a good time to a very, very bad 
 time, indeed. 
 
 Angela listened for a while, then began to pour 
 out her grievances. It was all very well to talk, 
 but what was a girl to do ? She couldn't " have 
 nobody to home — to set in the kitchen wid the 
 whole fam'ly. An' they [meaning her pa and 
 ma] won' l'ave me go no place — an' if they 
 would, I couldn' go, not haven' a daycint rag to 
 wear. Pa's awful pertickler — about other folks. 
 He said he didn' care if lots o' girls I know do go 
 to dance halls — theer no place fer a daughter o' 
 his, though they might do fer the girls of thim 
 immygrints wid no understandin' o' what's 
 what. But min like Pa that's seen the world, 
 theer too wise t' l'ave theer girls go by no 
 dances." He even frowned on her going — as 
 she sometimes did, with her Aunt Maggie and 
 Uncle Tim "of a Sat'dy night" — to the By-Joe 
 (Bijou) to see "Nellie the Beautiful Cloak- 
 Model," or "On the Stroke of Twelve," or "The 
 White Queen of Chinatown." But Mary had 
 overruled him there, it seemed, reassured by 
 Angela's answer to her anxious query if the By- 
 Joe was a "rayspictable" place: "Why, sure, 
 Ma, it's a rayspictable place!" Angela had 
 hastened to exclaim ; " 'tis a gran' theayter, an' 
 swell people goes there. Why, it say on the wall, 
 
JUST FOLKS 97 
 
 'No shpittin' ner shwearin' allowed'!" And, 
 on the same conviction that "girls do be after 
 nadein' a little plisure now an' thin — ye can't 
 kape thim in yer pocket," Mary had secretly 
 raised Pa's ban against amusement parks — on 
 Angela's solemn promise "not to touch no beer, 
 ner to take up wid anny man yer not properly 
 introjooced to," and, above all, to "kape no 
 comp'ny wid thim that wint to Chinee places." 
 
 But Angela couldn't afford to go to amusement 
 parks on her own treat, and it was hard to "get 
 ast by a fella " when you had no place to entertain 
 a fellow and no clothes, and when everybody 
 was " always throwin' it into you not to go wid no 
 fella ner to take nothin' off'n thim." There was 
 Gertie O'Malley now — the belle of Henry 
 Street. Gertie's pa was a policeman, and Gertie 
 had a "parlie" and a piano and a silk dress and a 
 whole court of Nineteenth Ward beaus, attracted 
 partly by Gertie's loudly assertive charms and 
 partly by the expediency of standing in with 
 Gertie's pa. Angela felt very wroth with her sire. 
 Not every man, she knew, can be a policeman ; 
 but any man as smart as Pa Casey had a right 
 to be a good deal "more of a pervider ner what 
 he was !" 
 
 Beth granted all this ; she sympathized ; she 
 inveighed against Pa and conditions ; she cajoled ; 
 she painted the rewards of virtue in glowing colors 
 and told herself that though she believed in 
 
98 JUST FOLKS 
 
 these rewards, it was asking too much of Angela to 
 believe in them too. For in Angela's sphere of 
 life — as in some others — it takes a pentrating 
 spiritual vision indeed to see beyond the ap- 
 parent success of vice and the apparent failure of 
 integrity. 
 
 "I know, Angela," Beth said, "I know it's hard, 
 but what can you do ? For you must be good 
 — mustn't you ? You must be good !" 
 
 "Yes'm, I s'pose so," Angela admitted. 
 
 "Well, then, you can't do it unless you're 
 careful — always on the lookout, as I tell you. 
 For I don't suppose any girl ever went wrong 
 because she decided to go to the devil ; she gets 
 there before she realizes — that's it ! No supper 
 with the foreman when you work late, remember ; 
 foremen don't spend supper money on girls out 
 of pure benevolence. No theatre tickets from 
 the boss ; no candy — no red skirts — no — no 
 anything!" It was an ordeal to honest little 
 Beth — demanding this heroically difficult virtue 
 of a starveling like Angela Ann ; but she knew 
 she must persevere in it. 
 
 "You take back the red skirt, Angela," she 
 said, finally, "and tell the young man your ma 
 never lets you take presents. And I'll get you a 
 nicer one, somehow — and maybe a nice shirt- 
 waist, too." 
 
 Thus bribed, Angela Ann took back the skirt. 
 But Beth was dubious if the victory were one 
 
JUST FOLKS 99 
 
 of morals or of " a shirt-waist to boot." When she 
 came to think of it, though, she could not see 
 that many people's morals can be easily divorced 
 from expediency. 
 
 The return of the red skirt precipitated a small 
 tragedy. "He" told Angela she was a fool, 
 and he passed the joke around the shop, so 
 that Angela went to Beth in a passion of tears, 
 declaring she would never go back there again ; 
 that she loved him dearly and was sure she 
 would never meet another fellow half so nice; 
 and that she wished she "was dead, anyhow." 
 
 Beth promised to get her another job and 
 wisely refrained from urging it upon her that "he" 
 was well lost. 
 
 "When we get your new skirt and waist, Mr. 
 Ferris and I will take you out to Riverview," she 
 promised, "and try to give you a good time." 
 
 "Goin' wid another girl an' her beau, ain't the 
 same's going wid yer own," sobbed Angela. 
 
 No, it wasn't; Beth knew. "But a girl like 
 you won't be long without a beau, Angela dear. 
 If you keep sweet and good, some fine young 
 man'll come along and make you a good hus- 
 band—" 
 
 "Oh," wailed Angela, "that's what Ma's 
 always sayin' — an' you — an' it's in the plays an 
 the story-books an' the Advice to the Lovelorn ; 
 but it ain't so ! The girls that's free an' aisy 
 wid the min gits the most beaus — an' thim 
 
ioo JUST FOLKS 
 
 that tries to do right gits laughed at, an' called 
 fools." 
 
 Again Beth was silenced, unable to deny the 
 seeming truth of this ; unable to ask Angela's 
 childish eyes to see past all the surface injustice of 
 the world's way of apportionment, to the real 
 status of things, where it becomes apparent that 
 each of us get, somehow, just about what we 
 have earned. 
 
 "I don't know why any one should expect 
 Angela to see that deep — to have a hope that 
 her experience won't justify," Beth told her- 
 self passionately; "but oh! she must be made 
 to see it, in some way, or to take it on faith. She 
 must ! She must !" 
 
 The way Beth appealed to them about the 
 red skirt and the peekaboo waist made several 
 persons only too glad to help out ; and the way 
 she urged the vital necessity of a new job, and an 
 attractive new job at that, made one of her 
 staunch supporters glad to give it to her. 
 
 "What can your girl Jo?" the staunch sup- 
 porter asked, poising his pen above an order blank 
 which, signed by him, would commend Angela 
 to the foreman of his factory for immediate 
 employment. 
 
 "Do?" echoed Beth, excitedly. "Do? I 
 don't believe she can do anything ! But she 
 needs the job /•" 
 
 "You're an excellent economist, Miss Tully," 
 
JUST FOLKS 101 
 
 said the staunch supporter, smiling, as he handed 
 her the order for Angela's 3#&'} i :' I'M ' 
 
 "I'm a better economist than he knows, I 
 guess," Beth thought, as she hurried to Henry 
 Street with his order. "I don't say it's ideal 
 economy giving Angela a job not because she can 
 fill it but because she needs it — but I guess it's 
 at least as good economy as letting her go where 
 she may go if she doesn't get it — and prosecuting 
 her after she goes — and prosecuting others be- 
 cause of what she's dragged them to — and bury- 
 ing her, while she's yet young, in the Potter's 
 Field ! I guess the difference between the way 
 Angela does the job and the way some other 
 girl might have done it, won't be as great as the 
 difference it might make to Angela if she didn't 
 get the job !" 
 
 " I suppose my allotment will be to get Angela 
 a new beau!" laughed Ferris, when Beth re- 
 counted to him her other successes. 
 
 "If you only could!" Beth sighed. "But I 
 suppose that's something that, in America, every 
 girl has to do for herself. What you can do, 
 though, is to take Angela and me out to River- 
 view, some night this week, and help me give her 
 one good time." 
 
 Ferris smiled, but agreed. Angela, in all the 
 splendor of her new red skirt and her peekaboo 
 waist, was called for with all ceremony. (Beth 
 only wished she knew some one "with an auto- 
 
102 JUST FOLKS 
 
 mobile and " a sense of humor — if they ever 
 go together !"-- v/bc might have loved the 
 human comedy well enough to take a hand in it 
 for this evening. But she didn't.) And even 
 Pa-the-particular speeded their going and wished 
 them, handsomely, a "gran' time." 
 
 But alas ! and alas ! for the best-laid plans. 
 While they stood — Hart Ferris and Beth and 
 Angela Ann — watching the crowds on the danc- 
 ing floor, Angela gave a queer little cry, half 
 rage, half pain, and dashed away as if in quest 
 of a place to hide among the trees. 
 
 "Why, Angela, what's the matter ?" implored 
 Beth when she had overtaken the girl. 
 
 For a few moments, Angela was so shaken with 
 sobs that she could not reply. Then: "It's 
 him!" she wailed; "him an' Nellie McGuire 
 wid the rid skirt on!" 
 
 Nellie McGuire worked in the same shop, it 
 seemed, and it had evidently not been "agin her 
 princ'ples" to accept a red skirt "ofPn a fella," 
 nor against her pride to take one that she knew 
 had been returned by another girl. 
 
 Hart Ferris, when the tragedy was explained 
 to him, had the usual masculine perspicacity 
 about affairs of the feminine heart. 
 
 "Maybe it wasn't the same skirt," he observed, 
 consolingly. 
 
 And the look Angela gave him was so withering 
 that, in spite of herself, Beth laughed. 
 
JUST FOLKS 103 
 
 Ferris's next masculine inspiration was whis- 
 pered to Beth. "Let's take her into one of these 
 funny side-shows and divert her," he suggested. 
 
 Beth had a momentary temptation to look 
 withering herself — but she overcame it. She 
 was growing used to the uncomprehendingness 
 of masculinity, and beginning to have even a sort 
 of tenderness for it in her masculine, as she 
 would have had for any other hard-and-fast limi- 
 tation Nature had put on him. 
 
 "Girls in Angela's mood donH divert" she 
 said softly ; and there was something in her tone 
 that impressed Ferris that she knew. 
 
 So they went home, a subdued little party — 
 home to the top of the creaking stairs on Henry 
 Street, where Beth and Ferris stood for a minute 
 after Angela had disappeared into the Stygian 
 blackness shrouding the bottom of the flight. 
 
 "It's tragedy, all right," said Beth, soberly, 
 when she and Ferris turned away. "She's 
 young, and we know she'll get over it — but she 
 doesn't know she will, and it's as tragic to her as 
 if it were the end of everything." 
 
 "Oh, she couldn't care so very much for the 
 fellow — she hardly knew him," Ferris philoso- 
 phized ; " and she's got the red skirt." 
 
 If Ferris could have seen Beth's face in the 
 darkness of Henry Street, he would have been 
 sorely puzzled by the expression on it. 
 
VI 
 
 Beth had little leisure and almost as little in- 
 clination for life outside the Ghetto. The people 
 around her were so absorbingly interesting that 
 she found the more superficial contact with 
 people "across the border" savorless and unsatis- 
 fying. They liked to hear her talk about her 
 life and her work and her new friends — those 
 outsiders — but she couldn't talk to them as 
 she could to Hart Ferris. The Casey s, the 
 Rubovitzes, Liza, Adam, Hannah Wexsmith, the 
 Gooches — these were but names to those who 
 listened ; only to Hart were they more or less 
 familiar personalities that could be discussed, 
 not merely talked about. And Beth's mind and 
 heart were so full of them that she wanted to dis- 
 cuss them as personalities, not just to tell about 
 them to persons whose chief interest was in their 
 poverty, and whose mental attitude seemed to be 
 that poverty makes of human creatures a world 
 apart. So Hart Ferris was daily entrenching 
 himself deeper and deeper, not only in the affec- 
 tions of little Beth, but in that "thou and thou 
 only" place in her life and heart which he so 
 earnestly desired to fill. It was such a busy life, 
 
 104 
 
JUST FOLKS 105 
 
 such a wide-reaching heart, that it wasn't easy 
 to acquire over it complete sovereignty; it 
 wasn't like the heart of a girl with nothing to 
 think of but love and her lover. But Ferris was 
 beginning to see how much more glorious the 
 conquest of it was. For, as he advanced step by 
 step into Beth's interests (somehow, she seemed 
 to have jumped into the very heart of his interests 
 all at once, in her wonderful, woman's way) he 
 could feel the solid ground of comradeship 
 beneath his feet. He was making himself ten- 
 derly necessary to her ; day by day he was enter- 
 ing further into her life's ramifications ; soon, 
 he hoped, there would not be a byway, ever so 
 small, of her ardent interest, which he had not 
 shared with her. It was a delicious courtship, 
 and Ferris felt sorry indeed for the men who had 
 nothing to court in a girl but her fancy for the 
 way they looked or acted or earned money. 
 
 Beth wasn't thinking much, consciously, about 
 the processes of her love affair. Only she was 
 finding herself more and more eager to talk 
 things over with Hart, more and more confident 
 of the new understanding that would come to 
 her in the talking over, and more and more 
 satisfied with his companionship and none other. 
 
 They went to the theatre quite frequently — 
 sometimes to a down-town theatre to see a good 
 or fairly good play well or fairly well acted, and 
 sometimes to the By- Joe (Bijou) or the Academy 
 
106 JUST FOLKS 
 
 or other West Side theatre to study what West 
 Side folks like. Ferris was able, through his news- 
 paper connection, to get passes, except in the 
 cases of plays doing excellent business, and they 
 were able to afford themselves a great deal of 
 pleasure this way. On hot nights, Beth liked 
 to go to the amusement parks, partly for what she 
 saw that helped her to understand phases of her 
 work, and partly for the sheer delight she had 
 in the crowds, the lights, the music, the dancing, 
 the diversions. The child-heart in her was inex- 
 tinguishable, and it kept her soul untainted 
 by conditions which some call the sordid and the 
 seamy conditions of life. Beth loved to dance, and 
 the smooth, shining floors of the dancing pavilions 
 never failed to tempt her, no matter how many 
 weary miles her small feet had trudged in the 
 day's work. A dance was a mental transforma- 
 tion to her. The puckers came out of her 
 mind, she said, and left nothing but the joy of 
 rhythmical motion. After a good dance with 
 Hart, she could feel herself freed of fret, refreshed, 
 ready to begin all over again. And he loved 
 the flushed cheeks and bright eyes of her, the 
 happy, bubbling, care-free laugh, and the fairy- 
 light motion of the slender little thing in his 
 arms. Those were happy midsummer nights ; 
 no two young lovers in the city had happier. 
 And coming home, under the friendly stars, was 
 sweeter still. Ferris was teaching Beth to know 
 
JUST FOLKS 107 
 
 the stars, and she was getting much from them 
 that helped her in the Ghetto. 
 
 So Beth was very happy, and her happiness 
 was one of the things that made her presence 
 precious in the Nineteenth Ward. 
 
 It was not so hard for her to realize that there 
 might be an important work for her to do beyond 
 the Ghetto as it was for her to want to do it. 
 She was familiar with the old, old discussion of 
 what Hull House has accomplished, and with its 
 time-honored ending: "Well, aside from what 
 Hull House has done for the Nineteenth Ward, 
 just see what it has done for the Lake Shore 
 Drive !" She knew the principle of great Jane 
 Addams whom little Beth revered so deeply, the 
 thing that had brought her to what people are 
 pleased to call "the slums"; and it was not, 
 primarily, so much to teach as to learn. If Jane 
 Addams had been able to communicate the beauty 
 of her spirit to more of her disciples, there could 
 never have been any discussion of what Hull 
 House was worth to the Nineteenth Ward. 
 But if she had been able so to do, she would not 
 have been repeating the history of great spirits 
 who moved greatly toward the world's uplift. 
 If the doubt of her success had not assailed her 
 from the outside and if, much more, it had not also 
 assailed her from within, she would have been 
 only imperfectly akin to others of her great kind. 
 It was what she realized of some of Hull House's 
 
108 JUST FOLKS 
 
 apparent failures, what she felt, intuitively, 
 that Miss Addams must feel, that awoke Beth, 
 finally, to what she called " the claims of the 
 Lake Shore Drive." For if one remembered 
 why Miss Addams had come to South Halsted 
 Street, one could never question her success. 
 She had come to learn and to attract others 
 to learn. And the more Beth came to know of the 
 Nineteenth Ward, the more reason she had to 
 doubt if any possible benefit to the Nineteenth 
 Ward could be so great as the benefit of acquaint- 
 ance with the Nineteenth Ward to dwellers on 
 the Lake Shore Drive. 
 
 That was how she came, finally, to fear that 
 she was selfish about her new interests ; that she 
 ought, no doubt, to share her wealth with the 
 "poor rich." Of actually rich persons she knew 
 none at all ; but of those rich in leisure and poor 
 in interest she knew as many as most of us are 
 obliged to know. And some of these persons 
 envied her (or thought they did !) her interest 
 in the Ghetto. They "wanted to help" (of 
 course they'd put it that way ! Beth thought 
 impatiently) but "didn't know anybody to do 
 anything for." The only help they knew how to 
 give was material, but Beth often needed that. 
 She soon found, however, that she had to take 
 these would-be Samaritans on probation as she 
 took the delinquent children of the Juvenile 
 Court; to be exceedingly cautious how she 
 
JUST FOLKS 109 
 
 allowed these sudden enthusiasts to come into 
 personal relations with the objects of their chari- 
 table zest. They did such queer things. And the 
 Ghettoites, rightly, resented them. 
 
 Beth had heard the Samaritans' stories about 
 the poor who spent on tintypes and phonographs 
 the money given them for food and overdue rent. 
 But she knew, too, of the charity organizations 
 that solicited "pound" donations and distributed 
 the packages undiscriminatingly along any mean- 
 looking street — Mary Casey, at a time of partic- 
 ular hungriness and coldness, having been pre- 
 sented, by a palpitating young person at the back 
 door, with a pound of starch. 
 
 They usually gave the wrong thing — those 
 precious enthusiasts-of-a-moment — and they 
 usually gave it in the wrong way. It was a great 
 deal easier to keep the two worlds apart and do 
 "the go-betweening" herself. But that wasn't 
 helping the world that was probably in most need 
 of help. 
 
 One way these Samaritans crowded upon her 
 was through Ferris. Following humbly in the 
 beautiful example of Jacob Riis when that 
 splendid spirit was doing not the least of his 
 service to humanity through his department of 
 police news on the New York Sun, Ferris was 
 rapidly making a local name for himself by his 
 written accounts of what he learned from Beth. 
 And as readers began to know that these were 
 
no JUST FOLKS 
 
 "really true," there came to be a clamoring of 
 Samaritans with softened hearts and apparently, 
 as Ferris said, with softened brains when it came 
 to having a definite, practical, humanly-loving 
 idea about helping a brother in distress. 
 
 Yet they seemed so genuinely anxious to help, 
 so sincere in their declarations that it was doing 
 them a great kindness to let them know where 
 they could give, that Beth often felt severe com- 
 punctions at putting their generosity on such 
 stern probation. But if she didn't, she was nearly 
 always sorry. For the Samaritans, intoxicated by 
 the unaccustomed wine of a little gratitude from 
 fellow-creatures they had helped, usually pro- 
 ceeded at once to demoralize those fellow- 
 creatures in an insatiate desire to feel more of 
 their gratitude, and more, and more, and more. 
 Then, when they had used every time-honored 
 method of blunting appreciation and deadening 
 self-respect and taking the keen edge off desire — 
 and had succeeded in their efforts — they always 
 became particularly bitter iconoclasts and par- 
 ticularly loud promulgators of the doctrine that 
 "the poor are poor because that's all they deserve 
 to be." 
 
 So Beth had to be careful. Few persons under- 
 stood the poor. Every one seemed to think that 
 poverty in some mysterious way alters our com- 
 mon human nature, instead of intensifying it as it 
 really does. Every one wanted to have an over- 
 
JUST FOLKS in 
 
 flowing, maudlin pity for the poor; every one 
 wanted to "show them how to do"; every one 
 felt superior to them ; no one ever stood in awe 
 of their patience, their faith, their fortitude. 
 
 But Beth herself was learning deeply of the 
 poor, and one thing they taught her was often 
 manifest: she never "gave up," any more. In 
 any problem involving human nature, she was 
 always ready to "try again." So she was grow- 
 ing patient with her Samaritan probationers as 
 she had learned to be with her delinquent chil- 
 dren ; for she could see that the Samaritans 
 needed her patience just as much — sometimes 
 a good deal more. She didn't mind for herself 
 the mistakes the Samaritans made, but she 
 minded them exceedingly for the victims. 
 
 "I wonder," she mused one night in talking to 
 Ferris, "if God means poor people to bear so 
 much — the brunt of poverty and the burden of 
 being practice-ground for the awkward Samari- 
 tanism of the rich ?" 
 
 Ferris never felt half as confident of God's 
 probable purposes as Beth herself, so he did not 
 venture to guess. 
 
 It was thus matters stood when Ferris wrote for 
 his paper a little story of Angela Ann and the red 
 skirt. 
 
 One of the letters that came to him (all of 
 which he duly, as was his wont, turned over to 
 Beth) was from a woman who said quite frankly 
 
ii2 JUST FOLKS 
 
 that she was suffering from melancholia and 
 that some one had advised, for her cure, an in- 
 terest in the poor. 
 
 "I like her letter," said Beth when she had 
 read it, "because she has a glimmering of the 
 right idea ; she feels her need and she thinks she 
 may get something over here. What I'm tired of 
 is the attitude of superiority which never imagines 
 there can be anything here for it to do except 
 to give. This is one place where 'them that 
 comes to git, go away richer than them that 
 comes to give.'" 
 
 So, after a few communications by mail, Beth 
 consented to go and see the woman who wanted 
 help. She smiled as she went, enjoying this re- 
 versal of the usual order. It was a time-honored 
 custom to call on the suppliant poor to see if 
 they were worthy to receive charity. It was a 
 little extraordinary to call on the suppliant rich 
 to see if they were worthy to give charity. The 
 impertinence and injustice of presuming to decide 
 in either case made Beth hotly ashamed, many 
 and many a time. She was ashamed to- 
 day. Who was she, to decide on a woman's 
 need ? But when she thought of what might 
 happen if she gave the Caseys' address to a 
 woman without trying to find out what the 
 woman's ideas and puposes were, and leaving 
 the results to God, " it didn't seem fair to 
 God," she said. 
 
JUST FOLKS 113 
 
 The name of the lady who wanted to get help 
 through helping was Mrs. Eleanor Brent, and she 
 lived just off the Lake Shore Drive on one of the 
 handsome residence streets that run west from 
 the Drive. The house in which she lived was 
 elegant, but in no sense palatial. Beth was con- 
 scious of being glad "it was no worse" (by which 
 she meant no grander) and then, before she had 
 time to think much further, the door was opened 
 and she was ushered in. 
 
 As she sat waiting in the drawing-room, her 
 misgivings grew. The probable effect of this on 
 Angela Ann, if she should ever be brought here, 
 was something Beth dared not contemplate. And 
 then, the sudden transition of some one accus- 
 tomed to this place, to "the depths of Henry 
 Street," was an idea sufficiently startling. The 
 house was one of those that impress a sensitive 
 stranger as being altars of worship for the god of 
 Immaculate Cleanliness ; everything in it was of 
 such exquisite polish and purity and specklessness, 
 that Beth felt a pang of pity for the woman who 
 had the dirt and the smells and the disorder of the 
 Ghetto to endure before she could come into the 
 companionship she sought. 
 
 At this point in her reveries, Mrs. Brent came ; 
 Beth was startled by her youth and by her beauty, 
 but startled only momentarily because she had, 
 somehow, expected something quite different. 
 In a moment, though, she had forgotten her sur- 
 
ii 4 JUST FOLKS 
 
 prise in her interest. Within five minutes she 
 and Mrs. Brent were confessing, each to the other, 
 their surprise. 
 
 "I thought you'd be a — severe, spinsterly, 
 middle-aged person, all angles — physically and 
 conversationally — and that you'd wear a — a 
 kind of a uniform; be something like a police- 
 man in petticoats," laughed Eleanor Brent. 
 Beth had made her laugh almost instantly the 
 first greetings were over. 
 
 "And I," Beth admitted, "thought you'd be — 
 well, I don't know just what I thought you would 
 be like. But I didn't think you'd be like you 
 are!" 
 
 Mrs. Brent led Beth on to tell of her work, and 
 she listened with an eager appreciation that made 
 Beth bring out all her best for this new friend. 
 (There was no doubt that they were to be 
 friends.) 
 
 "You are — please let me be quite frank! 
 — you are the most wonderful thing that has 
 happened to me in a long time," said Eleanor 
 Brent, tears shining in her eyes. "And because 
 I want to 'play fair,' to let you understand 
 what little there is of me to know, as well as to 
 enjoy knowing you, I'll tell you why I — why I 
 must have a new interest in my life." 
 
 She was an only child, she said, and had been 
 brought up with, undoubtedly, too much care. 
 She was educated abroad, and had had every- 
 
JUST FOLKS 115 
 
 thing done for her that love and money and 
 cultivated tastes can do for a girl. Much was 
 expected of her and for her. "Then I married," 
 she went on, "married when I was twenty-one. 
 It was a mistake." 
 
 The day, in late August, was oppressively hot. 
 When Beth came into the drawing-room, the 
 afternoon sun was shining brilliantly. While 
 Eleanor Brent talked, a gray cloudiness that 
 might mean rain overcast the sky. It came sud- 
 denly. One moment the sunshine reflected daz- 
 zlingly from the polished oaken floors ; the next 
 moment the corners of the room were full of 
 shadows and the open windows framed vistas of 
 gray. 
 
 " It was like that with me," said Eleanor Brent. 
 "Just as quickly as that, almost, the shining was 
 all gone out of my life. I try not to complain, 
 to make others wretched. I try to think of all 
 my mercies, and I'm grateful for them. But 
 gratitude isn't an equivalent for the joy of living ! 
 I want the shine back in my life. I want to ex- 
 pect things to happen — lovely fairy things that 
 color the days and make them truly different 
 one from another. I must get out of this 
 shadow I've been living in. I must have some- 
 thing to take me out of myself. It isn't go- 
 ing to be easy for me, nor for any one who is 
 good enough to help me. But I don't care how 
 hard it is for me, if only I can keep up the 
 
n6 JUST FOLKS 
 
 struggle. I mustn't let go ; that's all ! I 
 mustn't!" 
 
 "You won't !" said little Beth. 
 
 The next day, Eleanor Brent called at Maxwell 
 Street. But before that, something quite won- 
 derful had happened. 
 
VII 
 
 It was six o'clock when Beth got down town. 
 She had dinner with Ferris, in a modest little 
 restaurant, and told him the story of her after- 
 noon. 
 
 "I never saw anything lovelier to look at," 
 said Beth enthusiastically. "She's quite tall 
 and exquisitely slender and she has a great wealth 
 of that coppery red hair, and blue, blue eyes, and 
 a skin like strawberries and cream." 
 
 "Rather a startling person for Henry Street," 
 commented Ferris, sceptically. 
 
 "She £y," Beth admitted. "And it isn't going 
 to be easy for her to get close to people. Her 
 sadness is a kind they won't understand. And 
 they'll see her beauty and feel her culture and 
 suspect her 'well-to-do-ness,' and she'll seem too 
 favored of fortune to be sympathetic with the 
 poor and struggling. I'd give 'most anything 
 to look like her — 'most anything but the joy 
 of being little, insignificant me, so unnoticeable 
 that I might have the fairy cloak of invisibility — 
 I seem to get into folkses' lives so easily." 
 
 "Fairies are never large," Hart reminded her; 
 "and we don't call them insignificant because 
 
 117 
 
n8 JUST FOLKS 
 
 they're small. Personally, I think it's a misfor- 
 tune for any woman to be over five feet high." 
 (Beth was just five feet.) 
 
 " Well, anyway," said Beth, smiling gratefully 
 across at him, "I'm 'sure enough puzzled' to 
 know what possible point of common interest 
 there can be between Eleanor Brent and Angela 
 Ann — except clothes, and that's dangerous. 
 She was so moved by your story of the red skirt ! 
 She wanted to give Angela Ann some clothes of 
 hers. 'Not fancy things, of course!' she told 
 me, as if establishing her common-sense thereby, 
 'but a nice tailored suit and some pretty shirt- 
 waists and a good hat.' I explained to her why 
 these wouldn't do — how they'd actually brand 
 poor Angela in the eyes of all her world, because 
 every one would know she hadn't earned them and 
 no one would believe an angel from the Lake 
 Shore Drive had descended into Henry Street 
 with them in a tailor's box. Also, I tried to make 
 clear the probable effects of such elegance on 
 Angela Ann in the desperate struggle she must 
 wage to keep good. 'It's hard,' I told her, 
 'terribly hard, to stand by and see poor little 
 heroic Angela starving for pretty things and you 
 with more than you need. You'd love to share 
 with her, but you can do it only with infinite 
 discretion ; or else you'll make things worse for 
 her instead of better. It's like bringing up a 
 child : selfish parents give a child too much ; 
 
JUST FOLKS 119 
 
 unselfish parents try to make it strong to acquire 
 for itself. You learn a lot of sympathy with 
 God, ' I told her, 'when you try to act as the agent 
 of His Providence for any of His children. You 
 can see, in a feeble way, how hard things must be 
 for Him who holds all blessings, and life, and 
 death, in His hands.'" 
 
 Ferris had something he must do at the office 
 that evening, so after they had finished dining, 
 he put Beth on a Blue Island Avenue car and 
 went back to work. 
 
 The heat was all but intolerable, and the 
 Ghetto was a Gehenna. Force of habit, presum- 
 ably, had driven the gasping thousands of Ghetto- 
 ites into the stifling streets. Certainly, if one 
 could have measured the oven heat of the blistered 
 sidewalks with the oven heat of the tenement 
 rooms, nothing to the advantage of the former 
 would have been discoverable. Still, every one 
 had made what effort he could to get out of doors. 
 Those who could afford the money and muster the 
 energy had gone to the parks — the free parks 
 and the "pay" parks, at the latter of which one 
 may have many hectic delights for a dime, 
 especially if he be philosopher enough to reflect 
 that the best of the side-shows is what the barker 
 exhibits for a lure. (Alas, though ! how much 
 it costs most of us to feel sure of that.) Others 
 had gone on trolley rides — in Chicago one may 
 ride prodigious distances for a nickel — and to the 
 
120 JUST FOLKS 
 
 lake, two miles away, and to the public play- 
 grounds. What the Ghetto might have been like 
 if these more affluent and more energetic thou- 
 sands had not betaken themselves beyond its 
 confines, one dared not try to imagine. For, 
 as it was, the streets were so thick with humanity 
 that it seemed a breeze could not have blown 
 through, had there been any breeze to blow. 
 The hokey-pokey man, the vendors of water- 
 melon slices, the dispensers of penny soda-water 
 and pink pop, did thriving business ; and beer 
 disappeared like streams in a thirsty desert — 
 rivers of it ran, and slaked no thirst. 
 
 Every door-step, every garbage box, every 
 curbstone, held its quota of exhausted humanity. 
 Men, women, and children slept everywhere, 
 in the most hideously uncomfortable situations 
 and postures. Nobody wore anything that could 
 be left off — not in decency, for no one was bother- 
 ing about decency, but in safety from the not- 
 zealous nor much-in-evidence police. Flies 
 swarmed about the big wooden receptacles for 
 swill, and about the piles of decaying refuse which 
 careless householders had thrown into the alleys. 
 The odors of spoiled food filled the heavy air; 
 for few Ghetto folk had ice, and the least thing 
 left over from a meal spoiled before the next one. 
 
 Beth tried not to think enviously of the room 
 where Eleanor Brent would presently be sleeping. 
 She was a sturdy little soldier — was Beth — 
 
JUST FOLKS 121 
 
 and having undertaken a campaign in whose issue 
 she believed, she tried not to complain if it were 
 arduous or even perilous. 
 
 Hannah Wexsmith was sitting in her usual 
 post on the door-step, close under the sidewalk- 
 display of Monahan, and with her was Mamie 
 Gooch, holding her fretting baby and calling out, 
 now and again, to her little Clarence, who was 
 playing in the street. 
 
 Beth stopped to talk with them a few minutes, 
 then went on her way up the stairs. On her own 
 landing she paused ; the Slinskys' kitchen door 
 was open and Dinah Slinsky was sitting sewing, 
 close under the light of the small glass lamp on the 
 kitchen table. One end of the table, which was 
 covered with brown oil-cloth, was set for a solitary 
 meal. Jacob Slinsky, in his brush peddling, 
 went far afield, out of the region of department 
 stores and corner groceries. The trolleys took 
 him, at low fare, into the humbler suburbs, and 
 there he plied from door to door, sometimes 
 successfully — as often, not. Frequently it was 
 eight or nine o'clock when he climbed the stairs 
 after his day's journeying, to eat a supper he was 
 too tired to enjoy. To-night he was later than 
 usual, and Dinah felt worried lest he had been 
 overcome with the day's cruel heat. It was a 
 constant sorrow to Dinah that her father had to 
 work so hard ; for Dinah considered him an old 
 man verging on decrepitude and helplessness, 
 
122 JUST FOLKS 
 
 though he was only forty. Jacob himself felt 
 old. He had married when very young, worked 
 slavishly hard, and suffered many things. The 
 years of his life were as if doubled by their 
 exceeding weight, and it was a common topic 
 for family wonder and worry what was to become 
 of them all when Jacob should be too old to work. 
 
 Dinah thought of this now as she peered again 
 and again at the clock face in the dim corner. 
 Suppose her father had been overcome by the 
 heat, as so many were, each broiling day ! What 
 could save them from the fate they dreaded 
 almost worse than death — the necessity of 
 having to ask charity ! She looked at her stubby, 
 deformed hands, and the rebellious tears rose to 
 her eyes and, brimming over, dripped on to the 
 coarse garment she was fashioning. Dinah was a 
 dwarf — not a midget, small, but shapely, but 
 a squat dwarf. The lack of some necessary 
 secretion in her thyroid glands had arrested the 
 growth of her lower limbs, her forearms, her 
 second and third finger joints. She stood scarcely 
 higher than the kitchen table, and her broad 
 little hands which she made so useful, seemed 
 hardly more articulated than stumps. Dinah's 
 affliction made her people exceeding sensitive, 
 and in all Beth's comings and goings, hitherto, 
 she had never seen into the home where the Slin- 
 skys secluded themselves in their sorrow. 
 
 To-night, she happened by the door just as 
 
JUST FOLKS 123 
 
 Dinah's stubby hand was brushing the tears 
 away. Beth hesitated — longing to comfort, 
 afraid to venture for fear of being misunderstood. 
 She could readily understand what the Slinskys 
 had suffered, and how supersensitive they had 
 inevitably grown. 
 
 Dinah looked up and saw her, and hastened to 
 explain away the tears. 
 
 "My father is late," she said, in her peculiarly 
 sweet voice and careful enunciation, "and I am 
 alone, waiting for him. When he does not come, 
 I think how if he should be prostrated with heat." 
 
 " I know," said Beth, nodding understandingly ; 
 " I've kept that kind of anxious watch so often 
 myself. My dear father was in frail health for a 
 long time before he — went away from us ; and 
 I used to suffer agonies every minute he was 
 overdue." 
 
 Dinah's response to this was touching. The 
 sadness of her situation was two-fold : she felt 
 set apart by her affliction and she felt further sep- 
 arated from those around her — even, in a meas- 
 ure, from her very own — by her yearning for 
 things far beyond the interests or the understand- 
 ing of the Ghetto. She was so sure that no one 
 could comprehend how she felt that she never 
 tried to make herself understood. But the un- 
 mistakable breeding in Beth's manner appealed 
 to Dinah, and the lack of patronage reassured her. 
 Here was some one to whom she could talk ! 
 
I2 4 JUST FOLKS 
 
 She asked Beth to come in, and Beth accepted 
 gladly. 
 
 Dinah's confidence came slowly, at first, as if 
 feeling its way with great caution ; then, satisfied 
 of Beth's worthiness to hear, it poured out like 
 a released flood. 
 
 Dinah had graduated from the High School in 
 June. She was anxious to do something to help 
 her father — to ease his burden — and to provide 
 for her own future. But what ? Beth suggested 
 home work on artificial flowers or on feathers. 
 She was a little indignant at the way Dinah 
 repulsed these suggestions. What did Dinah 
 want to do ? Dinah wanted to be an artist. 
 With difficulty Beth repressed a gasp. Dinah 
 got up and went into the "front room," returning 
 with two framed pictures she had painted. One 
 was of an ornate Swiss chalet precariously perched 
 on a steep mountain side above a lake. The 
 other showed three pink roses in a bright blue 
 vase. Beth knew little about art, but she thought 
 the pictures were no worse than the average High 
 School pupil makes in the drawing class, and 
 rather remarkable for Dinah to have made with 
 those stubby fingers. 
 
 Thus launched upon the theme dearest to her 
 heart, Dinah's confidences grew more and more 
 intimate. Beth was amazed at the soaring am- 
 bition of this girl, and awe-struck at the thought 
 of how terrible must be her disappointment. 
 
JUST FOLKS 125 
 
 It was staggering to contemplate — the future of 
 this girl with her affliction and her pride and her 
 towering desires. Beth could think of nothing to 
 say. 
 
 "You think I cannot — that I am too — 
 short ?" said Dinah. 
 
 " No — no ! " Beth hastened to reply. But her 
 manner was unconvincing. "What do your par- 
 ents think ? " she asked. 
 
 Dinah's face was a study, and she did not 
 answer for several moments. Then the amazing 
 story came out. 
 
 "I wonder if you can understand ?" she said. 
 
 Beth looked surprised, and Dinah hastened to 
 explain. Had Beth wondered at the cause of 
 Dinah's "shortness" ? Confused, Beth tried to 
 make it seem that she had not. Dinah told what 
 the doctors — not the neighborhood doctors, but 
 the great doctors in the hospital clinics — had 
 said the matter was ; and how for months of 
 futile effort she had followed their directions and 
 eaten raw sheep thyroids procured from the stock- 
 yards at an expense great to the Slinskys and 
 swallowed with a heroism that taxed Dinah to the 
 utmost. But only she had hoped for help from 
 them, so only she was disappointed when they 
 failed to aid. Her parents — ! Did Beth think 
 Dinah a strange name for a Jewish girl ? In 
 school the teachers, accustomed to a world of 
 Roses and Lilies and Rachels and Sarahs and Idas 
 
126 JUST FOLKS 
 
 and Rebeccas, always thought Dinah "a nig- 
 ger name." Whereunto Dinah explained : her 
 father's name was Jacob ; and in the Bible, 
 was not Jacob's daughter named Dinah ? But 
 — ! Did Beth know what Dinah meant ? It 
 meant "Judgment." Dinah looked at Beth to 
 see if she seemed to comprehend. Judgment ! 
 
 "And your parents knew — ?" asked Beth. 
 
 Dinah nodded. 
 
 "And they believe — ? " 
 
 "Yes ; that I am God's judgment on them for 
 some wrong." 
 
 "Do they — do they think they know what the 
 wrong is ?" 
 
 "No, they cannot tell. Something in their 
 lives has displeased Jehovah and — I am — 
 short." 
 
 Beth's eyes blazed. " You don't believe that, 
 do you ?" 
 
 Dinah's face changed expression ; the rebellion 
 faded and the look of the zealot, ardent for immo- 
 lation, came instead. " ' The fathers,' " she said, 
 "'have eaten a sour grape, and the children's teeth 
 are set on edge.' " 
 
 Beth opened her mouth to make quick retort, 
 then closed it again, on sobering second thought. 
 
 This was the supreme tragedy of Dinah ; not 
 the bonds of poverty nor the bonds of her afflic- 
 tion, but the bonds of her own belief held her 
 most cruelly fast in the pit, looking yearningly 
 
JUST FOLKS 127 
 
 aloft toward the heights where her ambition 
 soared. 
 
 When Eleanor Brent called, next day, Beth 
 was so full of the story of Dinah she could talk of 
 nothing else. 
 
 " There's the girl for you !" she cried. "Your 
 obvious cultivation would frighten Angela Ann ; 
 it will appease the pride of poor Dinah. And oh ! 
 that pride. How you'll long to feed it, for her 
 present comfort ! And how you'll fear to feed it 
 for her future peace of mind !" 
 
 Beth left Mrs. Brent to talk with Liza while she 
 went to knock at the Slinskys' door and inquire 
 with utmost diplomacy if she might bring a 
 friend to call — a friend to whom she had spoken 
 of Dinah's paintings — a friend who understood 
 much more about such things than Beth did. 
 
 Liza had, of course, been told about Beth's 
 visit and had her own opinions about the Slin- 
 skys' situation. 
 
 "The idea of anybody holdin' such heathen 
 doctrines !" she declared. "Them Jews hadn't 
 ought to have ever come to a up-to-date Christian 
 country like this where there ain't nobody go in' 
 t' put up with their outlandish beliefs. I don't 
 see who ever saddled 'em with such a crazy lot o' 
 laws." 
 
 "Moses — mostly," Eleanor suggested. 
 
 "Humph!" Liza snorted. "I don't doubt 
 
128 JUST FOLKS 
 
 he was a right smart man fer his time. But, 
 land ! he's been dead a few thousand years an' 
 the world's a-bin learnin' somethin' ever since 
 he quit it. I says as much to one o' them Jew 
 women that was arguin' t' me about their ways 
 one day. Why, if them Jews was starvin' they 
 wouldn't touch good Christian meat ; want the 
 blood all koshered out of it, till 'tain't fit t' sole 
 shoes with; ain't enough fer 'em to insist on 
 gittin' cattle killed the bloodiest possible way, 
 but when they git the meat they soak it in salt- 
 water for hours till you wouldn' know it from 
 tripe ! And when she come back at me 'bout 
 Moses I jest up an' told her. ' Them laws,' 
 I says, 'may 'a' been all right fer the children o' 
 Israel in the Wilderness, because look at 'em ! 
 Bein' slaves so long, they was that scurvy an' 
 low down 'at God had to drive 'em out into the 
 desert an' let clean air blow on 'em fer forty years, 
 an' one generation die off an' another come on, 
 'fore He could let 'em into a decent country. 
 Seems t' me,' I says, 'I'd have more pride about 
 me 'n t' act's if I thought them laws was meant 
 fer me !' But 'tain't no use in yer wastin' wind 
 on 'em ! They think they know, and that's an 
 end on'tl" 
 
 "Most people are positive about their religious 
 beliefs — if they have any," Eleanor said. 
 
 "Not me!" declared Liza, promptly. "I 
 ain't never been one to haggle about religion." 
 
JUST FOLKS 129 
 
 Eleanor repressed a smile. "They don't try 
 to interfere with any one else's ways, do they ?" 
 she asked. 
 
 " Well, I should hope not ! Fer of all the crazy 
 ways, their ways is worst. Why, they dassent t' 
 strike a match on Satadys, t' light a fire; but 
 they pay a Gentile child a nickel t' strike it fer 
 'em, an' then they warm theirselves by it ! And 
 they dassent take a knife in hand to cut the string 
 of a passel ; but if you'll undo the passel an' 
 hand 'em the contents, they'll do most anythin' 
 with it. It's a sin to ride in a car, Satadys ; but 
 it ain't no sin t' walk down town an' go t' the 
 theayter — if ye got the price. Seems that 
 Moses, not knowin' about theayters, didn' 
 think t' say nothin' agin 'em." > 
 
 Eleanor looked thoughtful. "Well," she said, 
 " I guess most religions have their inconsistencies ; 
 or^rather, some of the people who practise them 
 have. When I was a child I was not allowed 
 to play anything on the piano, Sundays, but 
 hymn tunes. After I discovered that a number 
 of the most pious hymns were set to music from 
 operas, I always chose those to play and pre- 
 tended to myself I was playing opera, though 
 father thought I was playing hymns. And it 
 was forbidden to study lessons on Sunday. But 
 when I began to study Greek, I could read the 
 Greek Testament on Sunday and learn some- 
 thing without actually breaking the law. I had 
 
130 JUST FOLKS 
 
 no better sense of the Christian religion than 
 that ! " 
 
 Liza seemed inclined for further discussion, 
 but just then Beth came back and said the Slinskys 
 had asked her to bring her friend in. 
 
 The heat had abated by a few degrees, but the 
 abatement was more perceptible outdoors than 
 in ; the houses of the Ghetto were like slow- 
 cooling ovens, and the atmosphere of the Slinskys' 
 "front room" was pretty bad. But Eleanor's 
 breeding was exquisite, and if she was discom- 
 fited by the closeness and the rancid poverty 
 smell, she gave no sign. Beth noted the keen way 
 in which Mrs. Slinsky watched Eleanor, as if on 
 the alert to detect the least evidence of curiosity 
 or condescension, and to resent it. The little 
 be-wigged grandmother, who talked only Yiddish, 
 faded away after one look at the visitors ; Sarah 
 was not at home; so they were but four in the 
 Slinskys' room of ceremony, and after a few 
 moments the conversation settled to an animated 
 interchange between Eleanor and Dinah with the 
 other two no more than deeply-interested on- 
 lookers. 
 
 The paintings were displayed and discussed 
 gravely. Dinah spoke of her desire to be a 
 painter, and Eleanor offered what advice she 
 could regardless, apparently, of any obstacles 
 like grim poverty and stubby fingers. 
 
 Mrs. Slinsky was lost in admiration of her 
 
JUST FOLKS 131 
 
 Dinah's cleverness. Beth was as lost in admira- 
 tion of Eleanor's. 
 
 In some turn the conversation took, Eleanor 
 mentioned Millet. Dinah had heard of him. 
 Eleanor went on to speak of his pictures, his life, 
 his ideals, the opposition he had met, what he 
 stood for in art, in a way not noticeably different 
 than she might have followed in talking with 
 others who, like herself, had studied the best 
 of the Millet pictures, had been to Barbizon, 
 had read his Life and Letters, and knew the art 
 history of his day. Dinah was delighted and 
 even Mrs. Slinsky was appreciative. Eleanor 
 mentioned Millet's poverty, his sufferings from ill- 
 health, his struggles to support his large family, 
 his simple peasant's life, his credo as expressed 
 in the famous letter to Sensier after the storm of 
 criticism aroused by "The Man with the Hoe." 
 
 To Beth, listening as raptly as any, the poor 
 "front room" of the Slinskys seemed, suddenly, 
 a wonderful place transfused with the light of a 
 great life greatly lived. 
 
 Eleanor spoke of Napoleon III and his im- 
 patience with the fame of Millet; of how the 
 Emperor exclaimed "Enough ! I am tired hear- 
 ing of this painter of sabots;" and of how the 
 Emperor had died, discrowned and dishonored, 
 while the world's veneration of the painter and the 
 ideals he stood for grew deeper and more ineradi- 
 cable with every year. 
 
132 JUST FOLKS 
 
 "Israels, too, paints poor people," said Dinah. 
 
 Yes, Eleanor had had the honor to meet 
 Israels, to be in his studio. She owned a pic- 
 ture of his which she hoped Dinah would come 
 and see. 
 
 "There has never been a great painter of the 
 Ghetto, yet," Eleanor went on, almost as if 
 musing aloud. "The French peasant has his 
 Millet and his Breton; the Dutch cottagers 
 have Blommers; the Dutch fisherfolk their 
 Israels. But the picturesque city types, espe- 
 cially those in which all Ghettoes are rich, have 
 no painter." 
 
 Dinah's face was all alight with tremulous 
 hope. "I — I should love to paint them," she 
 said, "but I am so — short." 
 
 "Israels is short," said Eleanor, "almost as 
 short as you are." 
 
 "Is he?" cried Dinah. "And he is a Jew, 
 too ! Not many Jews have been great artists, I 
 know; but he is." 
 
 "There is no reason why Jews shouldn't be," 
 Eleanor broke in eagerly; "they're the most po- 
 etic people on earth, with the most wonderful 
 traditions !" 
 
 That burst of unmistakably real enthusiasm 
 gave Eleanor a secure place in the Slinsky affec- 
 tions. 
 
 "And then," she went on, "you're a Pole, 
 aren't you ? Think of the heritage you have 
 
JUST FOLKS 133 
 
 there ! Why, any one who is a Jew and a Pole 
 ought to be equal to anything artistic !" 
 
 For an instant, Dinah seemed carried away by 
 the vision offered her. Then her face clouded, 
 and Eleanor almost winced before the pain in it 
 as she said : — 
 
 "Yes, I have it all in me here," pointing to her 
 heart, "but only these," holding out her stubby 
 hands, "to express it with." 
 
 No one was able to speak for a moment during 
 which the light seemed to fade from the dingy 
 room as from Dinah's face, and the air to be- 
 come heavy with its habitual woe, its grim 
 acceptance of "Judgment." 
 
 Then Eleanor's voice, speaking very softly, 
 broke the strained silence. "The reason," she 
 said, so earnestly that no one could doubt her 
 intense sincerity, "that I thought you might 
 become a great artist is that you have so much to 
 overcome. Great overcoming has been the his- 
 tory of all great art. It seems, the more you 
 learn about it, that the first thing God does, 
 when He wants anybody to be great, is to fill 
 that person's way with apparently insurmount- 
 able obstacles." 
 
 "Then you think — ?" whispered Dinah, 
 afraid to breathe it aloud. 
 
 "I feel quite sure God must have meant you 
 to do something unusually fine, or He wouldn't 
 have made you as you are." 
 
i 3 4 JUST FOLKS 
 
 After Eleanor had gone home, radiant with 
 plans for Dinah's future, Dinah came tapping 
 very timidly on Liza Allen's kitchen door. She 
 wouldn't come in ; she just wanted to speak to 
 Beth from the hall — to speak about Mrs. Brent. 
 
 "I think," said Dinah, speaking of her new 
 friend, "she must be a very great lady, because 
 she made me feel so happy." 
 
 Which same, Beth thought, was as good a defi- 
 nition of great ladyhood as she had ever heard. 
 
VIII 
 
 It is almost impossible to make a daylight 
 call unannounced in Henry Street. The out- 
 posts are legion ; some of them are found to be 
 even beyond the confines of Henry Street itself, 
 in a group of marble players on Waller Street or 
 among a flying squadron of "hitchers" on Blue 
 Island Avenue. On sight of any stranger whose 
 destination they know, these lookouts will 
 either communicate the news to the nearest 
 member of the household to be visited or, if the 
 call promises to be of general interest, will dive 
 down some alley short-cut and deliver the an- 
 nouncement, avant courier fashion, in kitchen 
 door or window. 
 
 It was well on past mid-afternoon of a swelter- 
 ing day in early September — when Chicago 
 usually has its most withering heat — that 
 Frankie Finnegan shouted at Dewey Casey, 
 "Yer aunt's comin' !" 
 
 It was no secret to any one in Henry Street that 
 Mary Casey's sisters, and in particular this Mrs. 
 Foley, disapproved of Casey and seldom visited 
 the Casey family; and by the time she had 
 reached the top of the stairs leading down to the 
 
 135 
 
136 JUST FOLKS 
 
 Caseys' passageway, Mrs. Foley had a large and 
 unabashed following. 
 
 Dewey was watering his garden when the 
 word came, and the poor, soggy bit of ground 
 must have been grateful for the rival interest 
 which withdrew Dewey for a brief space and gave 
 the yard-square of oozy earth a respite from 
 anxious waterings. 
 
 Mary thanked her stars that she didn't happen 
 to be washing, and that the kitchen was fairly 
 clean and free from litter. The children, even to 
 baby Annie, were playing in the street when 
 Frankie shouted his announcement, but they were 
 in Mrs. Foley's wake, every one, before she reached 
 her sister's door, and with them was a motley 
 collection of neighbors under sixteen. 
 
 "Come in, Kate !" said Mary. "Sure, I'm 
 awful glad t' see ye. An' how 've ye bin ?" 
 
 "I'm bad, Mamie; I'm tur'ble bad. My 
 stum'ck won' work at all." 
 
 At this interesting beginning the followers 
 came closer. They included five Caseys, three 
 Conleys from across the street, several Riordans 
 (newly moved in upstairs) and an indefinite 
 number of Russian Jews — the Rubovitzes among 
 them — from above, and beside, and behind, and 
 everywhere. The kitchen seemed crowded to 
 suffocation, the Jews waxing so bold as to stand 
 under Mrs. Foley's very nose and to handle her 
 garments with appraising fingers. 
 
JUST FOLKS 137 
 
 " Fer th' love o' Heaven ! send off some o' 
 these Sheenies, can't ye?" Mrs. Foley cried 
 irritably. 
 
 With no little difficulty Mary chased them out, 
 but she had to shut the door to keep them at bay. 
 In a moment the heat became unbearable and the 
 door had to be opened again, with Johnny and 
 Midget stationed at the threshold to defy in- 
 vaders — a situation of which they made the 
 most, Johnny enforcing his orders with a battered 
 broom. 
 
 "Are they always after doin' this way?' 5 
 asked Mrs. Foley, shooting disdainful glances at 
 the undisturbed Hebrews. 
 
 "Mos'ly," confessed Mary, apologetically. 
 "Thim Jews has no behavior an' ye can't do 
 nothin' wid 'em." 
 
 "'Tis a fine day whin a Christian body can't 
 call on her own sister an' tell her troubles, widout 
 bein' run over wid a pack of Sheenies," observed 
 Mrs. Foley, who lived beyond the confines of 
 the Ghetto and felt frank commiseration for her 
 poor relations. And, just to spite the curious 
 hovering near the threshold, Mrs. Foley entered 
 upon no further discussion of her "stum'ck" and 
 its woes, but plied her sister with questions about 
 the welfare of the Caseys until Mollie who had 
 been dispatched for beer, returned with her 
 pitcher, and hospitality began in earnest. 
 
 "Is he workin' ? " inquired the guest. 
 
138 JUST FOLKS 
 
 "Off V on, but not stiddy. Seem like theer's 
 no wither that's rale good fer cuttin' stone — 
 winters 'tis too cold, an' springs 'tis too wet, an' 
 summers 'tis too warm. I'm after tellin' Johnny, 
 here, whin he go t' work, t' take up wid a trade 
 that's indoors, so he kin git on in all withers." 
 
 "Is he drinkin' much ?" 
 
 "Not much. He do be havin' his drinks ivry 
 day, an' avenin's he bring min in here t' play 
 cards an' have theer beer. But sure ye can't 
 ixpict annythin' else. I niver see a man that was 
 dif'runt — they all have th' failin'. But it's 
 not the drink I'd mind so much, if he was just 
 stiddy. I tell ye, Kate, ye kin stan' most anny- 
 thin' if theer stiddy an' got ambition t' git on. 
 An' that's what he ain't niver had." 
 
 The moral tone of Mrs. Casey's reflections was 
 a disappointment to the Jews. They hearkened 
 to a little of it, then melted reluctantly away. 
 Even the Caseys found it familiarly dull and 
 straggled off one by one to other pursuits — 
 Dewey to carry another dipper of water to his 
 drenched garden in the hope of accelerating the 
 peach crop expected from five pits, now a week 
 planted with no visible results in spite of zealous 
 watering. 
 
 i "Whin 'tis not wan t'ing 'tis another," ob- 
 served Mrs. Foley, sententiously. "Ye t'ink if 
 yer man'd be stiddy ye'd be a' right. But my 
 man's stiddy, an' I'm goin' t' be outs wid 'im." 
 
JUST FOLKS 139 
 
 "Fer th' love o' Hivin ! Why ?" cried Mary. 
 
 " 'Count o' me bein' sick s' much. He says he's 
 tired of it. 'It's "hidache" here, an' "me stum- 
 'ck" there, an' midecine an' doctor bills ivry- 
 wheer,' he says, 'an' I wish ye'd die an' be done 
 wid it,' he says." 
 
 Mrs. Foley's tears fell as she told her sad tale 
 — big briny drops that rolled slowly down her 
 shrunken cheeks and splashed on the scrawny 
 hands folded passively in her lap. 
 
 Mollie and baby Annie stared, wide-eyed; 
 even the baby seemed to sense the scene as un- 
 usual, and Mollie was quite wisely aware that it 
 was no ordinary day when her Aunt Kate came 
 to their kitchen to cry. 
 
 For Aunt Kate's husband was a stationary 
 engineer who earned his $75 a month and held 
 his head very high, notwithstanding Pa Casey's 
 reminders, on those infrequent occasions when he 
 had the chance, that " stone-cuttin' be worth a 
 hundred an' twinty a month agin a man that kin 
 do it 'd work ivry day." The Foleys lived in a 
 flat on West Lake Street, and had a front parlor 
 with a "stuffed suit" and a patent rocker and a 
 mantel-shelf shrouded in a voluminous purple 
 "drape" and burdened with innumerable fancy 
 cups and vases secured with trading stamps or 
 given with pounds of tea. 
 
 On rare occasions the Casey children had been 
 taken to call at this swell establishment, but it 
 
i 4 o JUST FOLKS 
 
 could not truthfully be said that they were 
 ever encouraged to make free with their rich rela- 
 tions. 
 
 There were no children in the Foley flat — 
 only highly-colored "enlargements," in plush and 
 gilt frames, of children's photographs : little 
 girls in much Hamburg edging and wide sashes, 
 and little boys in enormous Fauntleroy collars 
 and queer little Derby hats. The children were 
 all in Calvary, whither most of them (there had 
 been ten) had gone even before the days of sashes 
 and stiff hats. 
 
 Doubtless it was because she had so little else 
 to do that Mrs. Foley — like other idle rich — 
 found so much time to be sick. Mary Casey was 
 certainly not less broken down and ailing, but 
 had no time to remember the fact. If Casey had 
 wished her dead, she would have felt no surprise. 
 Indeed, he had more than once tried to assist her 
 speedily out of the world by violence; but she 
 laid the offence, with all his others, to that fatal 
 lack of ambition which was the curse of their lives. 
 
 But that Foley should show this hardness of 
 heart toward his wife's sufferings was a terrible 
 shock to Mary Casey, who had always envied her 
 sister Foley's "stiddiness" while sympathizing 
 with her in the loss of one child after another. 
 Not for any consideration of income would Mary 
 have changed places with her sister and lived in 
 the childless Foley home ; but nevertheless — like 
 
JUST FOLKS 141 
 
 most of us — she was inclined to dreams of 
 what might have been if she could have added 
 Kate's blessings to her own and dispensed with the 
 drawbacks of either lot in life. 
 
 "Well, now!" she ejaculated as Mrs. Foley 
 told her tale. "What d' ye t'ink o' that ? Me 
 always feelin' how aisy ye had it, wid a nice house 
 an' plinty o' ivrythin' an' no worry o' bein' set 
 out er havin' the stove took off o' ye er yer word 
 rayfused t' the groc'ry ! It do go t' show that all 
 has theer troubles. Now, don't it, Kate?" 
 
 Kate nodded a forlorn assent. She had none 
 of Mary Casey's interest in the philosophy of 
 trouble. She could only remember that Foley 
 had wished she would die and have done with her 
 sickly wails. 
 
 "An' whin I'm gon' !" she cried, shrill anger 
 taking the place of despair, "I'll bet I'll not be 
 cold before he's foun' him some strappin' huzzy 
 that's not wore out wid his tin childern all in 
 Calvary — God rist theer souls ! " 
 
 "Sure!" Mary's eyes blazed at the thought 
 of this injustice. "That's mini But I'd fool 
 him ! I'd git aven wid 'im. Is it a husky guy 
 he want ? Thin you be that husky guy ! " 
 
 A gleam of interest shone in Mrs. Foley's 
 tear-filled eyes, and her sister went on. 
 
 "You take my word, Kate Foley, an' give 'im 
 what he wants ! Stop doin' yer washin'. He's 
 will-t'-do; l'ave 'm pay fer a washerwoman fer 
 
i 4 2 JUST FOLKS 
 
 ye. An' lay down an' take t'ings aisy. Drink a 
 couple o' beers ivry day an' put some fat on ye — 
 I niver see the man that could abide bones. 
 An' thin buy yersilf some nice dressin' sacks an' go 
 out on th' Avena an' have some style about ye. 
 Take car rides, an' see if the air don' hilp yer hid. 
 An' if it don't, let on like it did. Stop tellin' 
 'bout yer stum'ck an' yer hid, an' brag 'bout yer 
 new sacks an' what ye seen an' wheer yer goin' 
 nixt. 'Tis what his husky guy'd be doin' if you 
 was in yer grave." 
 
 Mrs. Foley dried her eyes. "I b'leeve I will," 
 she said, with a self-conscious little giggle. 
 
 Mary was deliciously excited. "Got anny 
 money ?" 
 
 Yes, Mrs. Foley had six dollars ; but it was 
 "agin th' rint." 
 
 "Niver mind th' rint," commanded Mary, 
 "Pete Foley ain't goin' t' git set out fer no six 
 dollars. You come right out wid me an' I'll help 
 ye spind it. Thin, whin Ang'la Ann come home 
 she'll l'arn ye a shwell new way o' doin' yer hair ; 
 an' agin ye go home, Pete Foley'll t'ink yer some 
 husky guy come t' flirt wid 'im, an' be takin' 
 ye t' shoot th' chutes." 
 
 All Kate Foley's doubts fled before this picture 
 conjured by persuasive eloquence, and she actu- 
 ally allowed Mollie and Midget to walk hand 
 in hand with her to Klein's Emporium, Mary 
 leading the way with wee Annie in her arms. 
 
JUST FOLKS 143 
 
 It was so long since the sickly, broken-spirited, 
 little dyspeptic had taken any interest in personal 
 adornment that she was far behind Mary in en- 
 thusiasm for "style," though Mary had not 
 bought herself a stitch of clothes in unnumbered 
 years, but wore the grotesque motley of people's 
 careless charity. 
 
 True to feminine nature, the first purchase was 
 a hat. Mrs. Foley's rusty, black straw sailor 
 was laid on a counter and the two women and 
 three children abandoned themselves to the deli- 
 ciousness of the moment. Mollie and Midget ran 
 far down the aisles collecting every imaginable 
 kind of head-gear, which their aunt and mother 
 successively tried on, then handed back for the 
 children to perch at rakish angles on their own 
 unkempt heads while they smirked delightedly at 
 themselves in the mirrors. Even wee Annie made 
 the most of this "trying" opportunity — or the 
 others did for her — and dimpled and smiled 
 under the brims of hats deemed "swell" for 
 babies in the Ghetto. 
 
 At length Mrs. Foley and her admiring train 
 agreed upon a confection of pale blue tarletan, 
 much frilled and shirred, with a drooping effect 
 of coarse, yellow lace over the brim and a spray of 
 solferino pink roses about the crown. 
 
 "Ooh !" breathed Midget and Mollie, ecstati- 
 cally, caressing it with tender but dirty fingers. 
 
 "Me!" screamed Annie, lurching toward it, 
 
144 JUST FOLKS 
 
 entranced, and yelling loudly when it was 
 snatched from under her grasp and carried off to 
 the wrapping desk to be done up in a paper bag. 
 The next purchases were on the same floor, one 
 was a white shirt-waist, very "peekaboo," and 
 the other was a kimona sack of gay-colored 
 lawn, with bands of turkey red. 
 
 "He do love rid," Mrs. Foley murmured as she 
 chose this. 
 
 On the main floor they bought a red neck ribbon 
 and a red tulle bow. Then Mrs. Foley was for 
 stopping, but Mary Casey was intoxicated and 
 there was no halting her till the six dollars were 
 gone. Not since she was married had she assisted 
 at the spending of so much money "at wan 
 lick." 
 
 She paused at the jewelry counter, transfixed 
 with delight, a queer, pathetic figure with her 
 stained, bedrabbled brown skirt six inches too 
 short in front and nearly as much sundered from 
 her bulging gray flannel waist at the belt behind. 
 She was bareheaded, with her wisp of dark hair 
 screwed into a hard little knot like a butternut 
 and "skewered" with a huge spike of a steel 
 hairpin from which the blacking had long since 
 worn off. 
 
 "Look !" she cried joyously, holding out a 
 long chain of blue beads. "Thim's swell, Kate," 
 she tempted, "thim's awful swell. I'm after 
 seein' all the high-steppers wearin' 'em, wid a fan 
 
JUST FOLKS 145 
 
 'tached to th' ind ! Ye got to stip high for Pete 
 Foley — if ye don't, some wan ilse will." 
 
 So the beads were bought — also a fan made 
 of cloth roses that closed to simulate a bouquet. 
 It seemed to Kate Foley then that there was 
 nothing more for money to buy, but Mary Casey 
 was not so minded. The crowning extravagance, 
 marking the "swell" that was-to-be, was near the 
 door, on the way out. Mrs. Foley balked ; this 
 was going too far. But Mary held out, her eyes 
 shining with excitement. 
 
 "They all do," she whispered, "th' min are 
 great after it." And a bottle of cheap but power- 
 ful perfume was added to the pile of purchases. 
 Then the homeward march began. 
 
 It was half-past five when they reached Henry 
 Street, where their appearance, bundle-laden, was 
 the signal for the gathering of a crowd. 
 
 Down the long flight of rickety stairs they went 
 single file, and along the dark, narrow passageway 
 between their tenement and the next, the proces- 
 sion following. The Caseys had disdain for the 
 rabble, as became persons so splendidly con- 
 nected, but they had no wish to disperse it; 
 for what's the value of splendor if there's no one 
 to envy you ? 
 
 One by one the things were unwrapped and 
 spread in overpowering array on the kitchen 
 table. 
 
 "Ye mus' go home in 'em," Mary commanded. 
 
146 JUST FOLKS 
 
 "Agin Ang'la Ann come she'll be showin' ye a lot. 
 She's tur'ble quick at style, an' she see a lot; 
 fer thim girls wheer she work is dredful dressy — 
 'cordin' t' what she say." 
 
 Angela Ann came in at half-past six and viewed 
 with astonishment the purchases. 
 
 "Yer aunt," said Mary, "have been frettin' 
 hersilf sick over the childern all bein' took an' 
 her stum'ck actin' quare-like. An' I've told 'er 
 what she nade is t' spunk up an' enjoy life an' 
 l'ave off grievin'. So she 've bought some new 
 t'ings fer t' spruce hersilf wid an' surprise yer 
 Uncle Peter." 
 
 "Sure," Angela Ann agreed, comprehendingly. 
 "Ain't I always tellin' ye a person have got t' 
 dress fer min ? I b'leeve Pa'd git a hustle on 'im 
 if you spruced up an' made 'im !" 
 
 Mary sighed. "'Tain't the same," she said. 
 "'Tis nothin' t' yer pa how I look. Yer aunt 
 Kate'll have a playsure in givin' her man this 
 nice surprise, because he's stiddy an'll apprayciate 
 it. But yer pa ain't like him. He ain't got no 
 ambition t' git on, an' it's nothin' t' him how I 
 look." 
 
 All this, as doubtless Mary intended, was send- 
 ing Pete Foley's stock steadily up with Mrs. 
 Kate, already beginning to wear the airs of a 
 woman whose charms are her tower of strength. 
 
 Angela Ann took down her aunt's coarse, oily 
 hair and built her a pompadour of dimensions as 
 
JUST FOLKS 147 
 
 towering as the lack of "rats" would permit. 
 Then the peekaboo waist was donned and the 
 scarlet neck ribbon tied behind, the tulle bow 
 pinned on in front. Beads and fan were adjusted, 
 and Mrs. Foley's handkerchief was soaked in 
 cologne, and the new hat put on. 
 
 Mary surveyed the results with beaming pride. 
 "My land !" she cried, ecstatically, "ye look fer 
 all the world like Mis' Patter Pammer in the Sunda' 
 papers !" 
 
 The small children accompanied their resplen- 
 dent relative to the car ; Angela Ann stayed be- 
 hind and indulged in bitter observations to her 
 ma. 
 
 "Pm sick an' tired o' the way we have t' do," 
 she said — the prospect of her aunt's dramatic 
 home-coming making her sore with envy. 
 
 "I know," soothed Mary. "But whin I t'ink 
 o' yer aunt's nice house wid niver a child in it, 
 'tain't me that'd trade places wid 'er." 
 
 "Well, / would!" cried Angela. "We got 
 too many kids around here an' that's why we 
 can't never git along. I'm tired o' havin' 
 everythin' I earn et off o' me an' never a cent t' git 
 me a decent t'ing wid !" 
 
 Mary's face was a study. She had no reply 
 ready, as she usually had, but seemed to be strug- 
 gling to say something that was difficult to say. 
 Angela Ann, in her bitter self-absorption, did not 
 notice her mother ; and Mary, suddenly weak in 
 
148 JUST FOLKS 
 
 the knees, went into her bedroom and sat down 
 on the edge of her bed. 
 
 When she reappeared thence, in a few moments, 
 she began a new conversation on quite different 
 lines. It was intended to cheer up Angela — but 
 Angela refused to be cheered. 
 
 After supper that night, Mary went over to 
 Maxwell Street. Beth was not in, and Liza 
 was entertaining Adam Spear, so that Mary did 
 not feel welcome to wait. She asked if Liza 
 knew where Miss Tully was, and Liza said she 
 thought Beth was at that small Settlement not 
 far away to which, one evening a week, her pro- 
 bation boys came to report to her. So Mary 
 walked over in the direction of the Settlement and 
 waited for Beth to come out. 
 
 It was one of those muggy nights when the 
 Ghetto streets swarm so thickly with humanity 
 that even one who is used to the sight can never 
 get through asking himself what America is to 
 do with these hordes on hordes of people 
 increasing so rapidly, by immigration and by 
 births, that their numbers make the brain whirl. 
 
 Beth had been coping all evening — as, indeed, 
 she coped all the time — with the results of over- 
 crowding ; of no place to play, no room at home 
 to stay in, no decency in the close living quarters, 
 and she was disheartened with the great, big, 
 unequal fight. 
 
JUST FOLKS 149 
 
 When she caught sight of Mary, her heart 
 sank ; for she knew Mary would not have sought 
 her out except to ask her aid in trouble, and it 
 seemed to-night that she was too discouraged 
 to hear another woe. 
 
 "Well, Mary," she said, trying to speak 
 cheerily, as they threaded their way through the 
 swarming streets, "how are things going with 
 you ?" 
 
 "Pritty fair," Mary answered, "but I got 
 awful misgivin's." 
 
 "What about?" 
 
 "'Bout Ang'la for wan t'ing. An' about — 
 well, all av us, fer another." 
 
 "Has Angela quit her job ? " 
 
 "No'm, she haven't — yit." 
 
 "Is she going to ?" 
 
 " I dunno, Miss Tully — I dunno what she'll 
 do — whin she know — " 
 
 "Knows what?" 
 
 Then followed an account of the afternoon, and 
 of the brief conversation between Angela Ann 
 and her mother after Aunt Kate had gone. 
 
 "Well, it's natural for a young girl to feel 
 that way. You couldn't expect Angela to appre- 
 ciate how you feel about your children, or how 
 much less happiness your sister can get from 
 her finery than she would have had if her babies 
 had lived." 
 
 "No," said Mary, eagerly, "that's just it — 
 
ISO JUST FOLKS 
 
 she can't understan' — an' so — I dunno what- 
 iver she'll do whin she have t' know — " 
 
 "Know what ?" 
 
 "About th' — th' new wan — " 
 
 "The what?" 
 
 "Th' new wan that's comin' — " 
 
 "To you?" 
 
 " Yis — " 
 
 "Mary!" 
 
 "I know how ye feel, Miss Tully," Mary 
 pleaded, "but ye don't understan'. Ye've niver 
 had wan o' yer own. I know theer's too manny 
 av us now, be some folks' way o' countin'; I 
 know we've not enough fer thim we have to ate ; 
 I do fale bad-like fer the poor little t'ing that be 
 comin' into a hard world widout askin' t' come. 
 But if it fale like I do, it'll be glad it come — 
 glad of all it have to suffer to stay here — 
 ivry time it hold a little child av its own in its 
 arms. I ain't had much happiness, be your way 
 o' t'inkin', Miss Tully, but whin I look back 
 an' misure it all up, I wouldn' trade me hard life 
 wid its baby fingers clutchin' at me brist, fer the 
 aisiest single life anny woman iver lived. An' 
 I can't be sorry 'bout the new wan. I know we'll 
 git along, some way. An' him ! You wouldn' 
 belave ! He's that pleased-like, an' he talk 
 lovely 'bout what he's goin' t' do fer it. I 
 wouldn' be su'prised if 'twas the makin' of him 
 git a stiddy job !" 
 
JUST FOLKS 151 
 
 "I suppose," said Beth, repeating this as best 
 she could to Eleanor, next day, "that hope must 
 be always and always renewing itself — especially 
 in Henry Street — or life couldn't go on. And 
 every new baby is a new hope, a new channel 
 through which happiness may come. I suppose 
 that is why God sends them so freely to the 
 Ghetto — where they have to have some thing 
 to look forward to ! . . . But oh ! I'm fearful 
 about Angela Ann, when she knows. A 'new 
 one' to her, is just one more hungry mouth be- 
 tween her and what she thinks is happiness." 
 
IX 
 
 Eleanor Brent had no considerable amount of 
 money to dispense, for she had come back to her 
 parents completely dependent on them, and she 
 was like most proud young women in like cir- 
 cumstance : willing to accept far less from them 
 than she had accepted in her girlhood. In vain 
 they argued — those doting parents — with this 
 only child. "It used to seem my right," she 
 said, "and I took all you gave me without ques- 
 tion. But now I feel that it's not my right, but 
 your kindness, and I don't want to tax it any 
 more than I can help." 
 
 This hurt her parents cruelly, but they hoped 
 it was only a phase and would pass. 
 
 Meantime, however, Eleanor had abundance 
 of what is worth more than money to one with 
 an interest in the Nineteenth Ward; she had 
 knowledge of life and of its opportunities, and 
 influence to help the aspiring toward their hearts' 
 desires. 
 
 It was, for instance, a simple matter for her to 
 get Dinah a free scholarship in the Art Institute. 
 Then she talked to the Director and to some of 
 the teachers about Dinah, and sketched vividly 
 
 152 
 
JUST FOLKS 153 
 
 and with intense sympathy the background 
 against which Dinah's life was lived, the pathetic 
 acceptance of her affliction as " Judgment." 
 
 This paved the way beautifully for Dinah, who 
 found a world of kindliness as well as a world 
 of inspiration and instruction in the beautiful 
 gray building on the Lake Front. 
 
 The Slinskys would not have taken any money 
 from Eleanor, but they were easily persuaded to 
 accept the free scholarship for Dinah, when Elea- 
 nor explained to them how money was set aside 
 in every enlightened municipality — and always 
 has been, these many centuries — for the educa- 
 tion of its talented youth. "For it has almost 
 never happened," she went on, "that the children 
 of parents who could afford to pay were the chil- 
 dren with the divine gifts. Nearly every great 
 artist was born in poverty; and do you know 
 what ? The rich and splendid persons who 
 helped them to get education, would have been 
 forgotten long ago, but for that one act. All we 
 know about some of the richest and most splendid 
 personages that ever lived is that they helped 
 such and such an artist ! If the artists hadn't 
 allowed them to help, they'd never have been 
 heard of at all. If Dinah becomes a great 
 painter, like Israels, she can give the Art Institute 
 in glory, ten thousand times as much as it gives 
 her in lessons." 
 
 Seeing it thus, the Slinskys consented. 
 
154 JUST FOLKS 
 
 Then there was Abe. He was anxious to be- 
 come a civil engineer, but afraid he could not 
 because he might have to work on Saturdays. 
 He thought that probably he would have to be a 
 teacher instead. Eleanor took him to see a man 
 she knew who was a civil engineer. This man 
 was enthusiastically in love with his profession 
 and, talking with him, Abe's ardor for it grew by 
 leaps and bounds. But on the homeward way 
 he told Eleanor he could see he must not think 
 of being an engineer, " for how, on the plains or 
 such places where I should work, could I get food 
 according to the Law, or properly observe my 
 Shabbas?" 
 
 The inflexibility of Abe was a wonder to 
 Eleanor. He wanted to get on; he had more 
 ambition than his father. Jacob could never 
 have known any struggle about a profession, for 
 Jacob had only one great purpose in life — the 
 strict observance of his religious duties ; he 
 could never have thought twice about a means 
 of livelihood which would interfere with them. 
 But Jacob's son was American born, and had gone 
 to American public schools. The atmosphere he 
 breathed was full of independence, of individual- 
 ism, of the ardor for success. Not only every 
 American boy Abe knew, but every Jewish 
 boy, was determined to make his life a big ad- 
 vance, in worldly prosperity, upon his father's 
 life. Abe had all this desire to succeed, but he 
 
JUST FOLKS 155 
 
 had a rigidity of Hebraic belief which never bent. 
 Ambition dashed against that rock and made Abe 
 unhappy ; but the rock showed no signs of erosion. 
 Eleanor could only marvel at the boy. But when 
 she grew bitterly impatient with him, she reminded 
 herself how he, too, was anxious to keep every letter 
 of the Law, hoping thereby to appease Jehovah. 
 
 It wasn't that they hoped by their rigor to 
 effect Dinah's physical recovery. They had 
 hoped that once, but the hope was gone, now. 
 But they must be unremitting in their zeal so as 
 to move God to lift the curse from their line; 
 otherwise it might descend, on and on, to future 
 generations. "The enormous personal responsi- 
 bility they feel!" said Eleanor to Beth. "No 
 wonder the Jews are a sad people." 
 
 On the other hand, though, there was Sarah. 
 Sarah was not sad, and orthodoxy troubled Sarah 
 only as it was imposed upon her, not as she felt 
 its urgings from within. Sarah was in High 
 School, too — in first year — but her interests 
 were not at all scholastic. Sarah was wildly 
 enamored of the stage. It was only a question of 
 time when Sarah would leave home ; and doubt- 
 less she would run away. For the stage is no 
 respecter of Saturdays, and when Sarah got ready 
 to go she would either take for granted the 
 parental objection and go without asking leave, 
 or would ask leave and, failing to get it, go 
 anyway. Beth and Eleanor could see this im- 
 
156 JUST FOLKS 
 
 pending, after they had talked twice with her. 
 Obviously, the thing to do for Sarah was to get 
 her confidence and try to see that when she 
 went on the stage she should go fortified with 
 some instruction and good advice and get into 
 a company where the general tone would tend 
 to help her up instead of down. 
 
 All this was a large contract for Eleanor, but 
 she went at it with a will. She could do little 
 for Abe; there was a struggle for which she 
 could have no sympathy, respect it as she must. 
 No one could do anything for Jacob except to 
 make his children happy. For himself he asked 
 nothing but liberty to worship as he must, and 
 health to keep his family from want. Mrs. 
 Slinsky continually "spilled tears," as she said, 
 and was not happy when this melancholy pleasure 
 was interrupted. What time she was not spil- 
 ling them over Dinah's affliction, or Sarah's 
 levity, or her husband's advancing age, or her own 
 physical ailments, she was spilling them over the 
 woes of the Jews in Russia. Eleanor made one 
 or two attempts to cheer Mrs. Slinsky up; 
 then concluded that to be cheerful was the least 
 of Mrs. Slinsky's desires. So her efforts nar- 
 rowed to Dinah and Sarah ; but they were enough 
 to keep her very busy. 
 
 Meanwhile, the wedding which Hart Ferris 
 thought was "as good as planned" when he found 
 
JUST FOLKS 1 57 
 
 Adam Spear, gave Beth — and, through her, 
 Ferris — several months of anxiety before it came 
 to pass. 
 
 "I never saw such a coy pair !" Beth declared 
 impatiently, to Ferris, one evening in October. 
 "He comes, every night of the world, and 'sets' 
 on his side of the table, and reads The News to 
 Liza while she sews. And they argue ! Well — 
 I guess you know ! you've heard them at it. 
 Seems to be their chief aim to find something to 
 fall out about. Last night it was about the 
 infelicities of the poor lady who is trying to ex- 
 tract a measly $125,000 a year alimony from her 
 multi-millionaire husband. They were discussing 
 her expenditures, as set forth in the day's pro- 
 ceedings of the divorce case. Liza opined that 
 the lady was 'a upstart,' but Adam inclined 
 to think that if her husband's income was a mil- 
 lion dollars a year, the share she asked for was 
 very modest. Liza was particularly severe about 
 the lady's dressmaking bills, as set forth in the 
 papers. 'A woman don't need to spend no such 
 sums on her clothes to look nice,' was Liza's 
 dictum. Adam took the lady's part — which 
 made Liza mad. She said he ' hadn't no jedg- 
 ment.' And when Adam saw how mad she was, 
 he seemed to think it was a jealous rage — which 
 so complimented him that he went on, trying to 
 augment it. 
 
 When a woman's fascinatm 9 , 9 he said, 'I 
 
 Cif 
 
158 JUST FOLKS 
 
 b'leeve she ought t' be allowed t' go's fur's she 
 kin. 'Tain't so durn many fascinatin' women 
 in this world but what they ought t' be encour- 
 aged.' 
 
 "'How d'ye know she's fascinatin'?' Liza 
 retorted sharply. 
 
 "'Well, she's a actress — an' they mostly air,' 
 said Adam, wisely. 
 
 "'Much you know about 'em !' snapped Liza. 
 
 "Then Adam lifted one rheumaticky foot off 
 the floor and laboriously crossed his legs in a 
 fashion intended to be jaunty, while he assumed 
 a mysterious air and answered, 'Oh, I dunno ! I 
 guess most men that's been around a good deal 
 has had their own experience with actresses — 
 they're real companionable ladies.'" 
 
 Ferris laughed long and loud. "The old 
 divvil !" he said. "Fancy the 'actresses' he 
 could have met !" 
 
 "Probably mended the trunk-lock of a circus- 
 ridin' lady, once upon a time," commented Beth 
 sharply, "but he had a manner like what a friend 
 of mine calls 'a sure-enough gay Ontario.'" 
 
 "Was Liza disturbed ?" 
 
 " She was charmed — but she wouldn't show 
 it for worlds, of course. That's just it ! She's as 
 'interred' in Adam and as anxious to marry 
 him, as she can be ! But she won't admit it. And 
 he's — well, I don't know about Adam, but I 
 guess he's pretty willing to bring his rheumaticks 
 
JUST FOLKS 1 59 
 
 and settle in a permanent seat of authority beside 
 Liza's stove — but he wants her to feel that it's 
 an awful responsibility for a 'gay Ontario' like 
 him to undertake the sober state of matrimony. 
 And there they are ! Sometimes I don't believe 
 they'll ever get married !" 
 
 Beth's tone was so maternally anxious that 
 Ferris was convulsed. "The concern those giddy 
 young lovers give you is delicious," he said. 
 
 Beth smiled. "Does seem as if I had to deal 
 a lot with romance in my 'day's work,' doesn't 
 it?" she said. " But I suppose I'm only finding 
 out what a part it plays in 'life as it comes to all.' 
 I was over at Mary Casey's to-day and found Pa 
 has been acting unusually bad, even for him. 
 I'm afraid Angela Ann won't stand it at home 
 much longer, unless things get better — and I 
 told Mary so." 
 
 " ' I know,' she said. ' I'm t'inkin' that mesilf , 
 an' it do worry me mos' t' death. But what kin 
 I do ? Whin he git so bad I t'ink I kin stan' no 
 more from him, I haven' no more'n made up my 
 min' t' l'ave 'im, than he do turn aroun' an' be 
 that foine, he's like the Lord Mayor o' London ! 
 Sure, it do kape a woman all bewildered-like.' 
 She's right, I guess ; first and last, the tender 
 passion do 'kape a woman all bewildered-like,' 
 and I'm begining to think we must love the 
 bewilderment — we begin to seek it so early, and 
 cling to it so late. I guess it's what spices life to 
 
i6o JUST FOLKS 
 
 a woman, — clear to the edge of the grave 
 — yes, and what makes her keen about the 
 Beyond." 
 
 In late October, Adam drew his pension; 
 and with this lordly sum tied in an emptied to- 
 bacco-bag, he inaugurated that brilliant, inspired 
 campaign which brought his forty-five years' 
 siege of Liza to a close. He disappeared. 
 
 For two evenings his place by the stoveward 
 side of Liza's table with the red-and- white checked 
 table-cloth, was vacant; and Liza "let on like" 
 she didn't note the difference. Then her stoicism 
 failed. 
 
 "I reckon," she said to Ferris, "you better 
 see if you can't find out where that old fool has 
 gone." 
 
 "That I might possibly have anything else to 
 do," said Ferris to Beth, "seems never to have 
 entered Liza's head." 
 
 "You might forgive her for that," Beth told 
 him, "when you reflect how neither does it seem 
 to have entered her head that you can't go 
 straight and find him if you choose." 
 
 " Instead of which, I haven't the remotest idea 
 where to look for the old doddeky !" 
 
 "Where would a 'fool critter' like Adam go 
 when he got his pension ? " 
 
 "On a 'bust,' I suppose — but, heavens! 
 there are quite some places in Chicago where 
 
JUST FOLKS 161 
 
 they are adept in separating fools from their 
 money ; and I can't search 'em all ! " 
 
 The next evening, Ferris being busy hunting 
 Adam, and Liza "havin' a fittin'," Beth went 
 over to Henry Street for a brief call on the 
 Caseys. There she told about Adam's disap- 
 pearance and Liza's anxiety. 
 
 "Whin a man have got money in his pockets," 
 observed Pa, with an experienced air, "he's 
 more like t' be spindin' it on some young skirt 
 than savin' it up fer an oF wan." 
 
 "That's just what he's doing — beyond a 
 doubt!" said Beth, severely. "But for Liza's 
 sake, I wish I knew where he's doing it ! " 
 
 "He'll come home whin 'tis all gon'," consoled 
 Pa — who knew ! 
 
 "Much comfort that be to a woman — the 
 poor t'ing !" cried Mary, with hot sympathy. 
 
 "Theer's two kin's o' women," said Pa, puffing 
 his pipe and looking most oracular. "Theer's 
 thim that min spind theer money on, an' theer's 
 thim that they go back to whin the money's gon'. 
 If yer wan kin' o' woman, ye can't be the other, 
 an' ye might's well make the hist of it !" 
 
 "Every good woman would rather be the kind 
 the men come back to !" said Beth, quickly — 
 thinking of Mary's comfort for the past, and of 
 Angela's outlook for the future. 
 
 Pa leered unbelievingly. "I guess they all 
 
 M 
 
162 JUST FOLKS 
 
 do what they kin !" he said. "An' thim that 
 fails as fascinators, they turn good." 
 
 "That's a fine way for you to talk before your 
 wife — before Angela ! " cried Beth, hotly. 
 
 Pa shrugged — and retired from the con- 
 versation. But when Beth got up to go, Angela 
 went with her, "a piece." 
 
 "I seen that old Adam Spear," she said, when 
 they were safely out of the family earshot. 
 
 "You did! Where?" 
 
 Angela hesitated. "I was out last evening" 
 she said, "wid a fella — " 
 
 "With what 'fella'?" 
 
 "A fella that's awful struck on me — I met 
 him up t' the Greek's — " 
 
 "Angela!" 
 
 "I ain' goin' t' take no clo'es off'n him," 
 Angela hastened to explain, "but — you heard 
 what Pa said ! I ain' goin' t' do no wrong, but I 
 got t' have some fun, an' I'll l'ave 'em spind theer 
 money on me if they want to." 
 
 Beth made a mental note of this confidential 
 outburst for immediate action the minute she 
 got Liza's difficulties settled. 
 
 "Where did you see Adam Spear?" she 
 questioned, seeming to ignore Angela's intentions. 
 
 "On Madison Street, in a — in a palm garden." 
 
 "Angela!" 
 
 " I didn' drink nothin'. It was wan o' thim that 
 has a vaudeville show, an' I was on'y lookin'. 
 
JUST FOLKS 163 
 
 Now, if you go an tell ma, I'm goin' t' run away. 
 But if you don't, I'll tell you wheer it was. 
 He had a girl wid him an' was buyin' beers fer her. 
 Mebbe he might be theer agin." 
 
 "Will you go there now and show me the 
 place?" ' 
 
 Yes, Angela would. So they went to Maxwell 
 Street and got Liza, who was crying softly 
 over her sewing when they went in. 
 
 "The durned ol' fool !" she said, wiping her 
 eyes on her apron, when Beth told her. 
 
 Angela "showed the place," and Liza went in 
 alone. No, she hadn't "never been in no palm 
 garden before, but that didn't matter none" — 
 if Adam Spear was there, she'd find him, and if 
 he wasn't, she didn't " fear no other fella's 
 grabbin'" her. 
 
 Beth and Angela waited outside — walking 
 up and down, a little distance away, so as not 
 to attract attention. In a few minutes they saw 
 Liza come out — with Adam, holding on to him 
 with a determined clutch. 
 
 "Let's go home a different way," said Beth; 
 "they won't miss us." 
 
 Two evenings later, Adam was permanently 
 installed by Liza's stove, and had so far recovered 
 from the sheepishness immediately succeeding 
 his capture, as to be a bit swaggering about his 
 adventure — to Liza's unconcealed delight ! 
 
X 
 
 In the Casey kitchen, shrouded in the gloom 
 of a late November afternoon, Midget and Mollie 
 Casey were " playin' school " with Rachel and 
 Rosie Rubovitz. It had been a sodden, rainy 
 day, and the air was full of chill dampness. On 
 the kitchen floor, and scarcely distinguishable 
 from it in color, rolled Abey Rubovitz, hero of 
 the pure-milk crusade ; and about him, in a nice, 
 anxious, motherly way, toddled wee Annie Casey, 
 "mindin'" him with all the superiority of her 
 two and a half years. 
 
 One lid of the big cook-stove was off, and from 
 the hole protruded a long piece of rotten sidewalk 
 plank, evidently acquired by Johnny from some 
 place where a new wooden walk was being laid, 
 and as evidently not chopped by Johnny into 
 stove-lengths, as directed by his ma. In her 
 mother's absence, Midget had replenished the 
 fire with this stick, which she could neither break 
 nor poke into the stove, and it stuck out, 
 smoldering and giving forth a depressing odor. 
 
 The school was not going well. Mollie was 
 "bein' teacher," and the Rubovitzes declared 
 she gave Midget the littlest and easiest words 
 
 164 
 
JUST FOLKS 165 
 
 and sums, to keep her at the head of the class — 
 which, truth to tell, was a novel place for Midget. 
 Protest against Mollie's despotic rule having 
 failed, the Rubovitzes took another tack. 
 
 "Id's cold by your house," said Rachel, 
 looking scornfully at the smoldering sidewalk. 
 
 "I bet yourn's colder," answered Mollie 
 with chill dignity, going to the stove and trying in 
 vain to poke the plank in far enough to admit 
 of the lid's going on. 
 
 "It aind't, iss it, Rachel?" Rosie chimed 
 in shrilly. "Ve got two stoves goin' !" 
 
 "I niver seen 'em," said Mollie, tauntingly. 
 
 "Ve joost a new von fer our frondt room got," 
 cried Rachel, waxing in her excitement more 
 Yiddish than usual. 
 
 Mollie and Midget looked at each other. 
 There was sad, shamed silence for a second, but 
 for a second only. Then, "We're goin' t' git 
 wan fer our front room, too," said Mollie, bravely. 
 
 "Ah, you ain' got no furn'ture by your frondt 
 room," reminded Rosie. 
 
 "But we're fixin' t' git it — better'n yourn, 
 too," answered Midget, coming to Mollie's 
 rescue. 
 
 Rachel and Rosie didn't take any stock in what 
 the Caseys were "fixin"' to do; the Caseys were 
 always and always "fixin"' to do something and 
 never doing it. But children think less of that 
 than do other people ; for are not they them- 
 
166 JUST FOLKS 
 
 selves always doing the same ? So Rachel's 
 retort passed this point by. "Anyway," she 
 said, "ve am' got no brudder by de bad boys' 
 vorkhouse, like you got ! An' my pa an' my 
 ma says, s'posin' our Herman was like your 
 Mikey, dey vould vish to be dead first." 
 
 "Our Mikey's all right, an' you can just l'ave 
 'im be!" cried Mollie, angrily. "We'd ruther 
 have 'im be in de bean house than have him be 
 a Sheeny ! " 
 
 "Sure we would !" echoed Midget, dutifully. 
 
 "Rachel," saidRosie, "ve should to go home." 
 
 "G'wan !" jeered Mollie, "that's like a Sheeny. 
 Irish'd stay an' fight." 
 
 "Micks is cheap fightin' peoples, an' you got 
 nodding ! Jewss is fer peace und gettin' along. 
 Come, Rosie." And snatching the astonished 
 Abey off the floor, she took her leave, slamming 
 the door behind her. 
 
 "I'll pay thim fer that — fer what they said 
 about our Mikey," declared Mollie, ready to 
 cry with rage. 
 
 "Ah," comforted Midget, philosophically, "wot 
 do we care wot Sheenies say ? What I'm carin' 
 'bout is, will Aunt Maggie lind Ma a half a dollar 
 to buy us some supper wid ? Here she come 
 now," she finished, as footsteps were heard out- 
 side the back door. But an instant later a loud 
 knock on the door startled them both. 
 
 Mollie went to the door and opened it. When 
 
JUST FOLKS 167 
 
 she saw who was there, an expression of frank 
 disgust came over her shrewd little face. "Ma 
 ain't to home," she said, without waiting for the 
 man to speak. 
 
 The man viewed Mollie with no more favor 
 than she eyed him with. "Well," he said inso- 
 lently, " I ain't callin' on yer ma ! Didn' she 
 leave no money fer the stove ?" 
 
 Mollie, who was holding the door only partly 
 open and standing staunchly in the breach, cast 
 one anxious look behind her as if to measure the 
 chances of the stove's "bein' took" against her 
 protest. "No," she said, " she didn'." 
 
 There was nothing apologetic in Mollie's tone 
 or manner; rather was it resentful. The stove 
 man was mad. "You haven' paid in three 
 weeks," he said sharply, "an' my instructions is 
 to git paymint to-day er git the stove." 
 
 Midget began to cry. "Shut up, you!" 
 Mollie ordered, looking at her scathingly. Then 
 she turned again to the man. "How kin we pay 
 wot we ain't got ?" she demanded of him. 
 
 "That's no business o' mine," he retorted. 
 "My instructions is t' git — " 
 
 "You said it wanst, an' wanst is enough," 
 Mollie interrupted impudently. 
 
 "Mollie, don't sass 'im!" pleaded Midget, 
 tugging fearfully at her belligerent sister's elbow. 
 
 The collector for a Blue Island Avenue 
 emporium that sold furniture and stoves "be aisy 
 
168 JUST FOLKS 
 
 paymints" had had a hard day; everywhere 
 he went, tramping from back door to back door, 
 up and down steep, dirty stairs, he had met 
 with the same story — no work, no money. 
 Some had entreated him ; some had abused him. 
 He was callous to both kinds of treatment, 
 but he was not callous to what the boss would 
 say when he got back to the store. He didn't 
 believe all these people were as poor as they said 
 they were. He believed they were lying to him. 
 But lying to his boss wouldn't do him any good. 
 He'd lose his job — that's what! "I bet," 
 he charged angrily, "you got money in the 
 house an' won't pay it !" 
 
 "We ain't," shrilled Mollie. 
 
 "Ixcipt th' insur'nce," put in Midget. 
 
 The collector knew all about the burial insur- 
 ance of the poor — had, in fact, once been a 
 collector of that, and often wished now that he 
 was back at it ; for the poor folk would pay their 
 insurance money if they could pay anything at 
 all, even if they had to starve to do it. "I told 
 ye!" he cried, when Midget mentioned the 
 insurance. 
 
 But Mollie's scorn knew no bounds. "I bet 
 you'd take the buryin' money off of us," she al- 
 most sobbed, "an' l'ave us be buried be the 
 county — " 
 
 "You ain't needin' no fun'ral, that I kin see," 
 the man answered unfeelingly. "An' 'twon't do 
 
JUST FOLKS 169 
 
 you no good to have a fun'ral that you don' need 
 an' lose a stove that you do need. You better 
 gi' me them nickels you got laid by, an' mebbe 
 when I show 'em to the boss he'll leave you go 
 another week before he takes the stove. Come, 
 now, are you goin' t' give 'em to me, or ain't 
 you ?" 
 
 "We ain't !" said Mollie, promptly. 
 
 "Then you kin tell yerma that I'll call to-morrer 
 fer the las' time." 
 
 "To-morrer's Sunday," ventured Midget, catch- 
 ing gratefully at that saving straw. 
 
 "Well, then, Monday; an' if she don't pay 
 then, I'll have the men here in an hour to take 
 the stove." And with that he *was gone, into 
 the black November murk of the oozy yard 
 and the narrow passageway. 
 
 Mollie made a saucy face after him when 
 the door had closed, but it was the merest 
 bravado; her poor little mouth was trembling 
 pitifully at the corners. "I wish Ma'd come," 
 she said forlornly, poking again at the smoldering 
 sidewalk. 
 
 It was very black in the kitchen now, and 
 Mollie felt her way to the sink and reached up 
 for the lamp on the iron bracket. She struck a 
 match, but the wick wouldn't light; she shook 
 the glass lamp. "This's impty!" she said. 
 "Git the oil-can, Midget." 
 
 Midget fetched the oil-can from the closet, 
 
i 7 o JUST FOLKS 
 
 shaking it as she came. "Not a drop," she said 
 forlornly. 
 
 So Mollie lighted matches and hunted till she 
 found a bit of candle; she had just set this, 
 feebly flickering, on the kitchen table, when the 
 back door opened and Dewey came in. Dewey 
 had been christened William Francis, but re- 
 christened, in deference to his warlike proclivi- 
 ties, after the hero of Manila Bay. In the dim 
 light, the other children could see something 
 with him and, knowing Dewey of old, Mollie 
 promptly asked, "Whose dog?" 
 
 "Mine," said Dewey, with a fine proprietary 
 air. 
 
 "Wait till Pa see 'im !" reminded Mollie. 
 
 Dewey bridled. "I s'pose ye kin hardly 
 wait ! " he charged. 
 
 "I bet the dog'll l'ave of 'is own will when he 
 see what kind of a place ye've brought 'im to," 
 tittered Midget. 
 
 Dewey looked at the candle and at the side- 
 walk in the stove. "Wheer's Ma ?" he said. 
 
 "Gon' t' Aunt Maggie's t' see won' she lind 'er 
 a half a dollar fer some supper," Mollie told him. 
 
 "I bet she don't," opined Dewey, bitterly. 
 
 "I bet she don't neither," agreed Mollie. 
 
 And just then the door opened and Mary 
 Casey came in. Four pairs of childish eyes 
 turned to her in eager questioning. It was use- 
 less to ask, but a feeble little question slipped 
 
JUST FOLKS 171 
 
 almost unaware from Midget. "Wouldn' she 
 lind ye nothin' ?" she asked. 
 
 Mary was hanging up her shawl and "fas- 
 cinator" on a hook near the door. "No," she 
 said, and the children wondered to see her so 
 dispirited. Mollie and Midget dreaded to tell 
 her about the stove man. 
 
 "Was annybody here?" Mary Casey asked; 
 she had gone at once to the fire and was over- 
 hauling it from its foundations. 
 
 Mollie looked at Midget and Midget looked 
 at Mollie. "The Rubovitzes was here," said 
 Midget. Then, by divine intuition, Mollie 
 added, "They made shame o' our Mikey — " 
 
 Mary Casey straightened up ; her eyes flashed ; 
 dejection had gone in a twinkling before righteous 
 ire. "Thim Sheenies !" she said wrathfully. 
 "If thim little divils comes in here anny more, 
 I'm goin' t' t'row water on thim — an' if I do, 
 it'll be the first that iver r'ached thim, I'll bet !" 
 
 The children giggled. They enjoyed the thrust 
 at the Rubovitzes, and they were relieved at their 
 mother's return to her normal mood; they 
 weren't used to her despondent. 
 
 When she had got the fire burning, Mary set 
 on a saucepan half full of water, and went into 
 the pantry and brought out a paper sack that 
 was nearly empty; in it were about two cup- 
 fuls of yellow corn meal. 
 
 "Oh, Ma!" wailed the children in chorus. 
 
172 JUST. FOLKS 
 
 They hated corn-meal mush at any time, but 
 they hated it for supper most of all. 
 
 "Well," she answered them patiently, "what 
 kin I do ? Unless we wait an' see will Ang'la 
 Ann git home pritty soon an' bring her wages ? 
 But she may be havin' t' work late to-night — " 
 
 It was Mollie who was struck by a bright 
 idea. "I know, Ma," she said. "L'ave us 
 take the insur'nce money ! He won' come fer it 
 no more to-night, an' ye kin pay it back whin 
 Ang'la Ann come home." 
 
 "Sure," cried Mary, brightening, "I niver 
 t'ought o' that. Ye've the gran' hid on ye, 
 Mollie Casey — ye take after yer pa." 
 
 She carried the despised and rejected meal 
 back into the pantry, and down from a high 
 shelf she brought a handleless, noseless pitcher. 
 "Thirty-five cints," she said, counting out the 
 nickels. "Git a little oil — " 
 
 "An' a jelly roll !" cried Dewey. 
 
 "An' a lemon pie !" begged Midget. 
 
 "An' some fried eggs! An' some bologny!" 
 Mollie entreated. 
 
 Mary smiled. "Thim nickels is not rubber" 
 she said; "they won' stretch over no lemon 
 pies an' fried eggs. But ye kin buy a jelly roll 
 — git yisterday's, fer half price — an' some pita- 
 ties, an' two loaves o' bread fer a nickel — " 
 
 "Oh," Mollie begged, "can't we git it frish — 
 jus' this wanst ?" 
 
JUST FOLKS 173 
 
 Mary considered. " If ye do, ye won' have 
 enough fer bologny," she said. " Well, away 
 wid ye, an' do the bist ye kin." 
 
 Happy, excited, arguing, the children started ; 
 but at the door Midget hung back, and when 
 the other two had gone out, she closed the door 
 after them and stood with her back against it, 
 looking at her mother with distress in her big, 
 dark eyes. 
 
 "What ails ye, child ?" asked Mary. 
 
 Midget hesitated a moment. Then, "The 
 man was here t' c'lect fer the stove," she said, 
 "an' he's goin' t' take it off of us Monday unless 
 we pay." And, with that, she opened the door 
 quickly and went out after the others. 
 
 When Midget was gone, her mother stood 
 staring into the gloom of the kitchen. On her 
 face was an expression that Midget would not 
 have understood. Darkness and cold and hun- 
 ger were familiar to Mary Casey; familiar to 
 her, too, was the threat of being "set out" for 
 non-payment of rent and having her "things 
 took" for failure to meet payments which, 
 somehow, were never "aisy" except in her buoy- 
 ant mind at the exciting time of the purchase. 
 She seldom gave way before any of these things ; 
 but to-night — 
 
 Her attention was attracted by wee Annie 
 climbing toward the candle on the kitchen 
 
174 JUST FOLKS 
 
 table. "No, no, darlin' !" she said, and caught 
 the little thing up in her arms and held her 
 tight. "No, no!" repeated Mary, crooningly. 
 With the child hugged to her breast, she sat 
 down close by the threatened stove, where now 
 the damp sidewalk was burning — smoking miser- 
 ably, it is true, but giving out a little heat. 
 Annie was cold, and the warmth of her mother's 
 embrace was grateful, so she lay quiet. And 
 presently something dropped on Annie's face — 
 something warm and wet. Baby as she was, 
 Annie knew; the first thing in this world we 
 know is tears. She put up a little hand and 
 touched her mother's rough cheek. "Pitty, 
 pitty," she said; "nice, nice." Mary caught 
 up the caressing baby hand and covered it with 
 kisses. "Nobody know what ye mane t' yer 
 ma," she whispered to the baby; "no wan — 
 not avin thim that's been mothers thimsilves, 
 it seem." 
 
 The back door opened, and for an instant a 
 man stood framed in the doorway; then he 
 came inside and closed the door. 
 
 "What's the matter wid the light ?" he said. 
 He seemed cross at finding his home so dark. 
 
 "We've no oil," his wife replied. 
 
 Pa hung his hat on a peg by the door, took 
 off his coat and shoes, and drew up a chair pre- 
 paratory to putting his feet in the oven. "I'm 
 goin' t' move out o' this shanty," he said in 
 
JUST FOLKS 175 
 
 a disgusted tone, "an' git wan wheer there's 
 gas. 
 
 "'Twould be all the same," his wife rejoined 
 wearily; "the gas'd niver be paid — we'd al- 
 ways be gittin' it took off of us." 
 
 Pa said nothing. "Git anny work to-day ?" 
 Mary asked him presently. 
 
 "No, but a man's after tellin' me of a gran' 
 job I kin get on Monda'." 
 
 "Monda'!" cried Mary, bitterly. "To-mor- 
 rer ! It's been to-morrer, or Monda' or nixt 
 wake, fer twinty years !" 
 
 "Stone-cuttin'," observed Pa, gravely, "have 
 been a bad trade fer twinty years. What wid 
 this here new-fangled cimint, art' wid bosses im- 
 ployin' scabs (which I c'd niver be, though I'd 
 staarve !), 'tis a bad trade fer anny man." 
 
 Mary had been hearing this arraignment of 
 the stone-cutting industry for twenty years. 
 "Theer ain' no law," she said now, "compellin' 
 ye t' cut stone er do nothin'." 
 
 Pa's tone as he replied was full of severity. 
 " Stone-cuttin's me trade," he said with dignity, 
 "an' I ain' got no caard to no other trade. 
 You'd have me work at some trade I ain' got 
 no caard to, I suppose ? Well, I'll not- be a 
 darty scab fer anny wan ! I got better pride 
 ner that ! 'Tis agin my princ'ples." 
 
 "Pride ?" echoed Mary, scornfully. "Seems 
 a quare pride whin a man can't support his 
 
176 JUST FOLKS 
 
 fam'ly because he's proud — has t' l'ave thim 
 take charity because he's so proud — has t' sind 
 his childern t' work the minute they kin lie t' 
 the law about their ages (an' git quare in the 
 hid, like poor Mikey, gittin' th' paint-poisonin' 
 in that wall-paper place whin he was elivin') 
 because he 've such gran' princ'ples. Seem like 
 a quare pride in a man that'll l'ave his wife go 
 to her rilatives t' beg the loan of a half a dollar 
 to buy supper fer his kids, an' not git it because 
 her folks say they're tired o' feedin' her loafer! 
 Quare pride in a man, I call that !" 
 
 Pa took this arraignment with a gentle resig- 
 nation. "'Tain't in Maggie ner Pete Kavanagh 
 t' understan' me an' my princ'ples," he said. 
 "No, ner in you, nayther, I'm thinkin'. But 
 I'm not su'prised. Min wid princ'ples has niver 
 been understood by theer f am'lies — ner by the 
 world. The world have always gone haard wid 
 the best min — have always driven thim t' 
 drink wid its onfeelin'ness." 
 
 "If ye're a sample o' thim, it was aisy drivin', 
 I bet," was his wife's retort. 
 
 Pa smiled good-naturedly at this reference to 
 his "failin'." "I wish some wan'd drive me up 
 to a couple o' hot drinks right now," he said. 
 "I'm that cold, I'm all rheumaticky." 
 
 "Ye'll be colder nixt wake," she hastened to 
 tell him. "The man was here to-day t' take 
 the stove — it's goin' Monda'." 
 
JUST FOLKS 177 
 
 "Tis nothin' of the sort," assured Pa, grandly. 
 "Nixt wake I'm goin' t' pay the whole balance 
 on the stove an' see 'bout gittin' wan for the 
 parlie." And his tone was so confident, his 
 manner so inspiring that, as he went on and on, 
 unfolding to Mary what he meant to do "nixt 
 wake," she fell once more into the easy hope- 
 fulness that had sustained her for twenty years. 
 Providence develops in each of its creatures, 
 great and small, those qualities that they most 
 need to keep them alive; and in Mary Casey, 
 Providence had developed hope and patience — 
 perhaps they are the same thing ! Under the 
 "hope-begettingness" of Pa's talk, Mary gradu- 
 ally lost her irony, and by andby, holding the 
 sleeping child in her lap, she opened her heart 
 to Pa about the tears that had been wee Annie's 
 lullaby. 
 
 "I was to see Maggie to-day," she said, "an' 
 she's tur'ble put out wid me, 'count o' the — 
 the new wan. She wouldn' lind me no money 
 t' buy supper, not avin whin I promised her I'd 
 pay it back out o' Ang'la Ann's wages to-morrer. 
 An' after I was theer, I wint over t' the charity 
 place wheer they've helped us sometimes, t' see 
 could the young lady that's there maybe help 
 me t' git a few little clo'es. An' she says, 'I 
 mus' say, Mrs. Casey,' she says, 'it's very dis- 
 couragin'. You wid all the trouble you got — 
 not able t' kape the sivin childern you got from 
 
178 JUST FOLKS 
 
 starvin', an' a new wan comin' — I mus' say it's 
 very discouragin'.' I dunno if she'll try t' do 
 annythin' fer me — she seemed tur'ble provoked. 
 Seem like everybody do be blamin' me, an' I'm 
 sure whin I t'ink o' what it's comin' to, I ought 
 t' be weepin' tears o' sorrer fer the poor little 
 t'ing. But I got that foolish mother heart in 
 me that kape -singin' wid joy t' think how lovely 
 it'll be to have a new wan to cuddle an' set store 
 by. This'll be the tinth time I've known the 
 feel o' thim little searchin' han's on me brist, 
 but seems like I niver looked for'ard no more'n I 
 do now to the t'rill of it. I don' git manny 
 t'rills in my life — seems kind o' hard folks that 
 has none o' the pains to bear should grudge me 
 that wan!" 
 
 Pa was indignant. "I'll have none o' theer 
 baby clo'es !" he cried, "an' none o' Maggie 
 Kavanagh's adwice ! I intind t' raise this new 
 wan mesilf. I ain' got a child yit that suit me, 
 but I'm goin' t' take a han' airly wid this new 
 wan an' git him started right." 
 
 Mary ignored the implied fault with her train- 
 ing. The candle light was very dim, and in it 
 the grime and stubble on Pa's face showed 
 hardly at all ; and his voice had the same Irish 
 sweetness it had had years before when Pa was 
 not yet Pa, and had come to court her in her 
 fine, comfortable home where she was "workin' 
 out" — to woo her away with his soft words, 
 
JUST FOLKS 179 
 
 and the look in his big blue eyes, and the dimples 
 that played round his mouth when he smiled ; 
 with his glowing word-pictures of the "little 
 home" he was going to make for her; with his 
 blushing hints about the children that might 
 some day be theirs ; with the awkward caresses 
 of his big stone-cutter's hands. She had gone 
 gladly, full of sweet, fluttering hopes — gone 
 from her comfortable "place" to a home that 
 was little, indeed, and that grew more and more 
 squalid as each year went over their heads. 
 And she had never been sorry for going — not 
 even in the blackest hours of her children's 
 want and her husband's insufficiency. Always 
 something kept her from looking back regretfully 
 — always something kept her expectant. Per- 
 haps it was the memory — and the hope — of 
 those tiny baby hands searching, groping toward 
 her breast. Perhaps it was the memory — and 
 the hope — of times like this, when her winsome 
 Irish lad came back to her for a few tender 
 moments. . . . She heard the footsteps of the 
 returning children coming along the board walk, 
 and as she rose to lay baby Annie on the bed, 
 she stooped over and kissed Pa and whispered, 
 " Ye're glad fer the new wan — ain't you, Patsy, 
 b'y?" 
 
 "I am that," he answered her, holding her 
 cheek for a moment close to his own, "an' I'm 
 goin' t' do fine by 'im." 
 
i8o JUST FOLKS 
 
 Then the door opened and the three children 
 came trooping noisily in. They dumped their 
 purchases on the table and began tearing open 
 the packages. Mary took up the oil-can and 
 was about to fill the lamp, when her glance fell 
 on something Mollie was leading by a string. 
 "Fer the love o' Hiven, what's that?" cried 
 Mary. 
 
 Pridefully Mollie responded, "'Tis a hin." 
 
 "Wheefd ye git it }" 
 
 "Off a b'y in the alley, fer tin cints; he said 
 'twas a fine layer, an' we t'ought it'd be gran' 
 t' have frish iggs iv'ry day." 
 
 Mary was dubious, but she hadn't the heart 
 to cloud the children's hopefulness. "Well, I 
 dunno," she said, "but ye kin try. What'd ye 
 give up t' git it — the jelly roll ?" 
 
 "No — the pitaties." 
 
 Mary laughed. " Fer the love of !" she cried ; 
 "ye can't live on bologny an' jelly roll an' a hin 
 behint the stove." 
 
 "Well," said Mollie, with cheerful resignation, 
 "we couldn' fin' that boy now no more, an' git 
 the dime back." 
 
 "All right — I don' keer; ye kin tie up yer 
 hin an' see what'll she do t' take the place o' 
 pitaties." 
 
 It was while Mollie was tethering her sorry- 
 looking fowl to a stove leg that Pa first noticed 
 Dewey's dog. "Another dog ?" he said. "D'ye 
 
JUST FOLKS 181 
 
 ixpict him t' lay too ? Didn' I tell you I'm 
 tired o' supportin' dogs ? Maybe ye'll tell me 
 ye bought him fer sausage ?" 
 
 Pa's tone was scathing, and, fearing harm to 
 his pup, Dewey decided to offer him the cold 
 hospitality of the back yard. "Here, Togo, 
 Togo," he called sullenly. 
 
 "What's that?" cried Pa. "Togo? Togo? 
 I'll have no dog in my house called Togo ! Thim 
 Jappynase is haythins — they belave nothin' at 
 all." 
 
 "The Roosians is Sheenies," retorted Dewey, 
 who waged a perennial war with the "Roosians" 
 in the street and at school. 
 
 "Yer an ignyrammus !" said Pa. "The rale 
 Roosians is Cath'lics, same's yersilf. These here 
 Roosians on Hinry Strate was drove out o' 
 Rossia fer beiri* Sheenies — same's they ought t' 
 be drove out o' iv'ry place." 
 
 "Well," muttered Dewey, "I can't call 'im 
 no Roosian name, because I can't pernounce 
 none of 'em." 
 
 "You can't, can't you ?" Pa thundered 
 wrathfully. "Very well, thin — ye kin call him 
 an Amurican name, I guess. Jarge Washin'ton's 
 a good enough name fer anny dog, I guess." 
 
 "Theer, theer," said Mary, pacifically, cutting 
 off a piece of bologna, "you take Jarge Wash- 
 in'ton an' kape out o' the way a bit till yer Pa's 
 ofHnded princ'ples kin raycover." 
 
182 JUST FOLKS 
 
 Dewey took the sausage and was making for 
 the door with "Jarge" when there came a rap 
 upon it. 
 
 "Come in !" said Pa. And the visitor came 
 in. He was a small, withered-looking, oldish 
 man ; his skin had a curious parchment look 
 and was almost the shade of his clay-color 
 derby. He wore a brown plaid suit and a crim- 
 son crochet tie, and carried a book agent's port- 
 folio. The little man's movements were brisk, 
 his manner was breezy. 
 
 "Good evening," he said as he came in, 
 "good evening. Have I," bowing to Pa, "the 
 honor to address Mr. Casey ?" 
 
 Pa admitted that he had. "Won't ye come 
 in ?" he invited, and set a chair. 
 
 "Thank you, sir — thank you ; I will ! And 
 is this your fine little family, Mr. Casey ?" 
 
 "Part of 'em," said Pa ; "the rist's not home 
 yit." 
 
 "Well," said the agent, "I'm sure it's a family 
 for any man to be proud of." 
 
 Pa shrugged. "Theer well enough, but theer's 
 none o' thim as smart as I hoped they would be." 
 
 "Ah !" cried the little agent, eagerly, "that's 
 the proud, ambitious father, Mr. Casey. You 
 aspire so high for them, it's hard for them to 
 reach your fond expectations. That's just pre- 
 cisely why I called, Mr. Casey — just pre-cisely 
 why I called. I know it's a little late for a busi- 
 
JUST FOLKS 183 
 
 ness call, but I always like to catch the gentle- 
 man of the house when he's at home for supper. 
 One of your children, Mr. Casey — this one, I 
 think," laying his hand on Dewey's shoulder, 
 "sent a postal to the publisher of our glorious 
 paper, the Daily Mercury, answering an adver- 
 tisement which said : ' Send a postal, and get a 
 book telling you how to obtain a grand educa- 
 tion—'" 
 
 "That ain' what it said !" objected Dewey. 
 "It had a pitcher of battle ships blowin' up, an' 
 it said, 'Sind a postal an' git a book tellin' all 
 about the Jappynase war.'" 
 
 "So it did !" chirped the agent, "so it did ! 
 I remember ! One of the ads read just that way. 
 Well, your fine boy, Mr. Casey, sent a postal, 
 and our publisher says to me, says he: 'You'd 
 better see that Mr. Casey and tell him about 
 our wonderful offer. He's evidently a smart 
 man, or he wouldn't have a boy like that.' You 
 see, Mr. Casey, we have a new Grand Universal 
 Cyclopaedia of World Knowledge, in twenty- 
 seven volumes, giving complete, accurate, au- 
 thoritative, up-to-date information on twenty- 
 three thousand subjects. Think of it ! Suppose 
 you send your boy to a university, Mr. Casey. 
 What does he get ? At the most, four studies a 
 year — sixteen studies in a four-years' course — 
 at the cost of hundreds of dollars — yes, thou- 
 sands ! Now, for fifty cents down, and fifty 
 
184 JUST FOLKS 
 
 cents a week for one little year — think of it ! 
 
 — we will give him an education in twenty-three 
 thousand subjects !" 
 
 There was no mistaking the eager interest in 
 Pa's face, and the agent took out his fountain- 
 pen — for the joy of writing with which in the 
 presence of his awe-struck family Pa would, had 
 the agent but known it, have signed any paper 
 that could have been presented to him. Pa 
 reached for the pen, but Mary tugged at his 
 elbow and whispered in his ear. Nodding to her 
 to reassure her, Pa said to the agent, "Would 
 it be convanyant t' git the first paymint on 
 Monda', sir?" 
 
 "Certainly, Mr. Casey — most certainly." 
 Pa looked at Mary as if to shame her for her 
 doubts, and began the laborious business of 
 signing his name. 
 
 "There !" said the agent, when Pa's cramped 
 fingers laid the pen carefully down again, "I 
 hope these little ones appreciate what you have 
 done for them ! On Monday, Mr. Casey, the 
 twenty-seven volumes become yours and your 
 heirs' forever. Henceforth you have but to turn 
 to them to learn all you wish to know about, — er 
 
 — astronomy, Mr. Casey — about — er — geology 
 
 — or theology — or about any one of twenty- 
 three thousand subjects. Good evening to you 
 all — delighted to have met you. I expect to 
 hear of a future President Casey, rising to the 
 
JUST FOLKS 185 
 
 highest office in the gift of the American people 
 by his diligent perusal of the Great Univer- 
 sal Cyclopaedia of World Knowledge. Good 
 evening." 
 
 At mention of that future President, Pa shot 
 a proud look at Mary, as if to see if she com- 
 prehended what he was doing for the New One. 
 And after the agent was gone he laid down the 
 law to his family. By that time Johnny had 
 come in, and Pa addressed himself to Johnny 
 and Dewey, ignoring the girls, for whom he felt 
 an "ixpinsive" education to be unnecessary. 
 "Now," he said, "ye heard what th' agint said 
 about th' Prisident. I niver see annythin' in 
 ayther o' ye, much less in Mikey, that looked t 1 
 me like a buddin' Prisident ; but I'm after buyin' 
 this here ixpensive education in the hopes that 
 some day I may git a son that'll be like me, wid 
 ambition t' have th' bist or none at all. Mane- 
 while, though, you two can be learnin' off it. 
 Soon's it git here, you, Johnny, will begin at 
 wolume wan, page wan, an' l'arn ye a page 
 iv'ry night, an' Dewey'll do the same — " 
 
 "It'll take about t'ree years to a wolume," 
 said Johnny, who was pretty good at figures. 
 
 "An' I'll prob'bly die widout knowin' the 
 ind!" wailed Dewey; "I'll niver git past Pay 
 an'Q!" 
 
 Pa's look of scorn was scathing. "O' course 
 ye can't l'arn iv'rything!" he said. "Who'd 
 
186 JUST FOLKS 
 
 wish t' live wid ye if ye did? I don't know 
 iv'rything mesilf ! But if you Tarn up to Pay 
 an' Q time you die, ye'll be no slouch — which 
 is more'n I kin say of ye now. But t' avin t'ings 
 up a bit, Johnny kin begin at A an' l'arn t' Im 
 (M), an' you kin begin at Im an' l'arn t' the ind. 
 Then, betwane ye, whin ye're growed, ye'll 
 know it all. 'Tis the gran' princ'ple av all labor 
 t' pick yer job an' stick to 't, an' not meddle 
 wid no other felly's job whativer. An' in l'arnin', 
 be all I hear, 'tis just the same. So 'tis you," 
 to Johnny, "from A t' Im; an' Dewey from Im 
 t' the ind o' the book." 
 
 "I don't ixpict thim t' do much at it," he 
 told Mary later, when he had a chance, "but 
 they might's well be l'arnin' what they kin off 
 of it till the new wan git so he kin rade. They've 
 got a start of him," he admitted, "but I bet he 
 gits caught up wid thim before they know it." 
 
 And Mary hadn't the heart to spoil his en- 
 thusiasm by suggesting that the New One might 
 be a girl. 
 
 Spurred by pride in the new Cyclopaedia, Pa 
 did get work on Monday; and when he came 
 home at supper time Monday night, there the 
 twenty-seven volumes were, stacked upon the 
 kitchen floor. 
 
 Out of Angela Ann's wages — three dollars 
 and a half — Mary had restored the insurance 
 
JUST FOLKS 187 
 
 nickels, seven of them, and paid fifty cents on 
 the Cyclopaedia, and with great difficulty managed 
 to appease the stove collector for a few days with 
 the payment of one dollar. Then there had 
 been Sunday's food and a basket of coal, so that 
 there was not much left, on Monday night, to 
 face another week with. But when Pa came 
 home and announced the "gran' job," which 
 promised to be good for several weeks, the family 
 spirits rose sky-high, and there was nothing to 
 mar their enjoyment of the awe-inspiring new 
 possession. 
 
 As soon as the supper dishes were cleared 
 away, Pa set the glass lamp back in the middle 
 of the table, hunted out A for Johnny and M 
 for Dewey, and set them to work. 
 
 "Aw!" said Dewey, after a few moments of 
 intense application, while his parents and sisters 
 looked on admiringly, "this here's some furrin 
 lang'widge." And he pointed to "Maas, an 
 affluent of the Rhine," and "Maasin, a seaport 
 of Leyte," and " Maassen, an Austrian jurist," 
 and "Maastricht, a city of the Netherlands." 
 
 "Well, wot d'ye t'ink o' dis ?" cried Johnny, 
 inviting sympathy for himself as he struggled 
 with "Aalborg, on the south shore of the Lim- 
 fjord," and "Aard-vark, a burrowing, nocturnal, 
 insect-eating mammal," and "Abacus, a calculat- 
 ing machine, occasionally employed to make the 
 elementary operations of arithmetic palpable." 
 
188 JUST FOLKS 
 
 But Pa was inexorable. "Most all l'arnin' is 
 in furrin tongues," he said. u Sure, anny fool 
 kin know English, but 'tis t' know what thim 
 quare furrin words mane that fellies goes t' 
 college." 
 
 On Saturday, when he got his week's pay, Pa 
 bought a book-case, "be aisy paymints" — a 
 "mahogany" book-case, smelling quite frankly 
 of pine through its coats of sanguinary red 
 paint, the tears of varnish trickling forlornly in 
 places, as if in mortification at being so poor a 
 sham. Two dollars had to go "down" for this; 
 and thereafter the collector would call once in 
 two weeks for a dollar more, until nine dollars 
 and sixty-nine cents had been paid. 
 
 And that night they had fried eggs and lemon 
 cream pie for supper; for had not Pa earned 
 twenty-four dollars that week ? 
 
 "Ye see," he said to Johnny and Dewey, 
 when they went reluctantly to their "iducation," 
 "what a man kin do whin he's a scholard. 
 That's why I want youse t' try an' l'arn all ye 
 kin, so ye won't have t' work fer no cheap 
 wages whin yer growed. Fer 'tis much better 
 t' work a day now an' thin fer four dollars, ner 
 t' work iv'ry day fer a dollar an' a quarter — 
 like an Eyetalian. Thim cheap Guineas has 
 no standin' ; but, wid me ! theer ain' no better 
 trade in the country ner what stone-cuttin' is !" 
 
 But after supper Pa went to O'Shaughnessy's 
 
JUST FOLKS 189 
 
 saloon at the corner, to tell the men congregated 
 there about the "iducation" he was providing 
 for his boys, and before he came stumbling home 
 a large hole had been made in his wages. And 
 by and by, when the "iducation" got to be an 
 •old story, Pa lost his zest for work, and things 
 lapsed, presently, into their more habitual state 
 of pinching poverty. 
 
 Those were busy weeks for Beth ; trouble was 
 rampant in the Ghetto and she seemed to have 
 her hands full day and night. She was worried 
 when she heard about Pa being out of work 
 again and was intending to take the first oppor- 
 tunity to go over to Henry Street, when word 
 came to her that confirmed all her worst fears : 
 "Angela Ann is gon\" 
 
XI 
 
 It was Johnny who brought to Beth the news 
 of Angela Ann's disappearance. He came over 
 to Maxwell Street before breakfast on a Tuesday 
 morning in mid-December, and asked to speak 
 to Beth "private." His agitation was so evident 
 that at once she scented something beyond the 
 ordinary run of tragedy in the Casey family; 
 and setting down the coffee-pot, she withdrew 
 to the dark hall outside. 
 
 Here Johnny told her, in scared whispers, 
 that Angela Ann had not been home all night; 
 that his mother was "'most crazy"; and that 
 she insisted the search for Angela should be 
 carried on without letting any of the neighbors 
 know she was gone. 
 
 As soon as she could swallow a cup of coffee — 
 and the depth of woe communicated to Johnny 
 by his mother was measurable in his refusal to 
 come in out of the hall or even to take a cup of 
 coffee if handed out to him there — Beth went 
 to the stricken household on Henry Street. 
 
 They were all in the kitchen, of course, and 
 every face except baby Annie's was pallid with 
 fright and streaked with tears. 
 
 190 
 
JUST FOLKS 191 
 
 Talking in hushed tones, so that by no chance 
 might the Rubovitzes or the new Irish tenants up- 
 stairs overhear, Mary told of her anxiousness as 
 the evening wore on and Angela did not come ; 
 of how she had tried not to worry but to assure 
 herself that Angela was "workin' late"; of 
 how she had sat up for her girl, after the others 
 were gone to bed ; of how, as it wore on to mid- 
 night and past, she had grown sicker and sicker 
 with fear ; of how she had gone, time and again, 
 to the corner and waited for a car to come by, 
 thinking it might bring her ; and of how she had 
 sat through the long, slow morning hours of 
 her vigil, until the others of the household woke, 
 thinking, thinking what to do. 
 
 The first thing that could be done, Mary had 
 already done ; that was to see if by any chance 
 Angela Ann could have gone to her Aunt Maggie's 
 to spend the night. At six o'clock Johnny had 
 been dispatched thither, and presently had 
 returned thence with no tidings of the lost one. 
 
 The next thing was to visit the place of An- 
 gela's employment and see if she came to work. 
 If she didn't, and if no word of her came all 
 day, they would have to consult again in the 
 evening. 
 
 "Ye won' lit it git in the papers, will ye?" 
 Mary pleaded. "Ye'll kape thim off of her, 
 won't ye ? I'm after tellin' the childern I'll 
 kill the first wan o' thim that breathe t' a soul 
 
192 JUST FOLKS 
 
 we don' know wheer Ang'la Ann is. Agin she 
 be all right an' come home, it'd go hard wid her 
 if these Sheenies 'round here knew she was 
 gon'. People do belave the worst of a girl, 
 always. I dunno what t' t'ink o' my Ang'la, 
 but I don' want it t' go hard wid her if she 
 don' desarve it." 
 
 Beth promised about the papers and went, 
 heavy-hearted, on her way. 
 
 That was Delinquent Children's day in Court 
 and Beth was busy. Cold and gloom outside, 
 with only cluttered kitchens to go to inside, 
 trebled the tendency of Ghetto young folk to 
 misdeeds. One finds it all but impossible to 
 blame human nature for not being strong in such 
 conditions ; and so, the hot resentment that flames 
 out against this wretchedness, directs itself 
 toward the conditions and, beyond them, toward 
 any sluggish ease or selfish strife that makes and 
 keeps them what they are. 
 
 Beth was up in the front of the court room, 
 near the clerk's desk, listening to the defence in 
 a case she had brought before the Court, when 
 she saw Mary Casey's shawl-shrouded figure 
 slip into a back bench and Mary's white, anguish- 
 stricken face turn toward her with despairing 
 negation in its look that answered Beth's look 
 of questioning. 
 
 After Court was over, Beth "walked a piece" 
 with Mary, whose only opportunity to talk 
 
JUST FOLKS 193 
 
 confidentially to Beth this was. Johnny's visit 
 to the place where Angela worked was productive 
 of "tur'ble bad" news: Angela Ann had "give 
 notice" on Saturday night, had been "paid 
 up," and quit. 
 
 This made it seem less likely that she had met 
 with accident or foul play, and more likely that 
 she had intended to go away. Beth made no 
 comment to this effect, hoping to spare Mary 
 the sharper grief ; but Mary saw for herself. 
 
 "Sure," she wept softly under her black shawl, 
 as they walked west in Ewing Street, "I t'ought 
 it was pritty bad whin I feared she was run over 
 an' kilt er somethin' like that. But, my God ! 
 a body could stan' that. If she 've wint away 
 intintional — oh ! she couldn' do that, d'ye 
 t'ink ? She wint out yistiday mornin' wid a 
 chune on her lips, a-hummin' as gay as a bird. 
 She couldn' have done that if she knew she 
 were goin' t' break my heart — could she ?" 
 
 "I don't see how she could," Beth admitted. 
 
 "No," said Mary, drying her tears and grasp- 
 ing hopefully at the idea of death rather than 
 dishonor; "I don' belave she could. She must 
 'a' t'ought she had a better job — poor little 
 t'ing ! — an' didn' want t' tell me 'bout it till 
 she was sure she had it. Fer she was rale 
 happy-like on Sunda' — the first she've been 
 since her Pa got out o' work an' the new wan 
 comin' !" 
 
194 JUST FOLKS 
 
 "Did she know?" 
 
 "Sure! I'm after tellin' her a couple o' 
 wakes back, an' at first she tuck it pritty hard ; 
 but after that, seemed like she didn' mind so 
 much." 
 
 Beth hadn't the heart to tell Mary her own 
 belief that Angela Ann had gone away on account 
 of the New One. And just then, Mary's sister 
 Maggie caught up with them on her way over 
 to Mary's to ask for further news. 
 
 Beth stayed with them only long enough to 
 get Mary's decision about telling the police; 
 and departed with the understanding that if 
 Angela Ann did not come home to-night for 
 supper, her disappearance would have to be 
 reported, though with every possible entreaty 
 and pressure of influence to keep it out of the 
 papers. 
 
 Angela Ann did not come home, and about 
 eight o'clock Beth went over to the Maxwell 
 Street Station and reported the case. 
 
 "Guess I better go over and see about it," 
 said Sergeant Doonan. He mistrusted Beth's 
 understanding of the situation, feeling sure that 
 so small a girl was easily hoodwinked. "There's 
 probably a lot they don't tell you," he went 
 on, patronizingly, and teased Beth with a laugh- 
 ing reminder of her experience with the "t'ief" 
 and the pawn-tickets. 
 
 Beth bottled her wrath. She could not find 
 
JUST FOLKS 195 
 
 Angela, and in all probability the police could 
 if they half tried ; so she must keep their in- 
 terest. 
 
 "That's right," she said. "Shall I go with 
 you, or do you think you could get more by going 
 alone?" 
 
 She was so meek that the Sergeant was sorry 
 for her. 
 
 "Oh, you can come along!" he responded 
 handsomely — thinking, no doubt, what a lesson 
 in proper methods his interrogation of the 
 Caseys would be to her. 
 
 Henry Street was as dark as Tartarus, and 
 a shade more dreadful, as they stumbled their 
 way along its "intermittent sidewalk" as Beth 
 called it, and down the steep flight of rickety 
 wooden steps leading to the black passageway. 
 Beth led the way back to the kitchen door which 
 Mary opened to her knock. 
 
 The kitchen was stifling close. In the bracket 
 above the sink was the only light, and the 
 tin reflector, instead of diffusing the lamp 
 rays, seemed to concentrate them, like a feeble 
 search light, so that the corners of the kitchen 
 were all in gloom, and half lost in shadows 
 were the forms of the grief-stricken Caseys, 
 whose pallid, tear-streaked faces showed sharply 
 white against the dusk. 
 
 "This," said Beth to Mary, "is Sergeant 
 Doonan, Mrs. Casey." To her relief and the 
 
196 JUST FOLKS 
 
 bitter disappointment of the children, he was 
 a plain-clothes man. 
 
 Nodding a brief recognition of the introduc- 
 tion, he proceeded at once to business. 
 
 "Had any word ?" he asked. 
 
 "Niver a word." 
 
 "You say she left home Monday morning, 
 just as usual, to go to work ?" 
 
 "Yissir." 
 
 "And you don't think she intended to stay 
 away ?" 
 
 Mary's eyes flashed. "If I t'ought a girl 
 o' mine could walk out an' l'ave me intintional, 
 wid a chune on her lyin' lips, I'd not be askin' 
 ye t' find her," she said. 
 
 "Did she have a beau ?" 
 
 "None that I iver see." 
 
 "Didn't she ever talk about any fellow?" 
 
 "Oh, sure ! she used t' be after talkin' 'bout 
 gran' fellies she'd see down town. An' I always 
 sez to her: 'You mark me words an' l'ave 
 gran' fellies be. They don' mane no good t' 
 the likes o' you,' I says. 'Thim fellies spinds 
 ivry cint they git on theer gol' watches an' swallie- 
 tails, an' whin they marry they got t' marry a 
 girl wid money t' support thim. Whin yer old 
 enough t' take up wid anny wan,' I says, 'yer 
 pa er yer Uncle Tim'll introjuce ye t' some nice 
 young lab'rin' man wid a good trade an' ambi- 
 tion t' git on ; an' you work fer him while he 
 
JUST FOLKS 197 
 
 work fer you !' 'Ah, ye don' know nothin' 'bout 
 it,' she'd say t' me. An', 'Don' you belave that !' 
 I'd say t' her ; ' I'm nothin' t' look at, an' I ain' 
 got much style about me, but I got some knowl- 
 idge o' mm,' I says, 'which God knows I paid 
 dear t' git,' I says, 'an' they're a bad lot, avin 
 th' bist o' thim. So you git it out o' yer silly hid 
 that anny gran' felly's goin' t' marry you er the 
 likes o' you. Ye may rade such foolishness in 
 yer story papers er hear it at yer theayters ; 
 but ye kin mark me words that love is fer tony 
 folks that kin afford it, an' not fer the likes o' 
 you an' me.'" 
 
 The detective listened judicially. Beth in- 
 terrupted by neither word nor sign. Casey 
 kept conspicuously quiet. The children were 
 awed into an almost breathless silence. Even 
 Jarge Washin'ton forbore to snuffle or to 
 pound the floor with his stub of tail. (The 
 "hin," alas ! had gone on the altar of necessity. 
 "We can't afford t' kape no hin just t' look at," 
 Mary had decided when due trial had been 
 given of her laying powers. So Nellie, ap- 
 preciably fattened by her undisputed pickings 
 from the children's scanty plates, had gone 
 to the butcher in exchange for a piece of meat ; 
 which seemed at least one degree less cannibal 
 than for themselves to eat Nellie.) Beth, not- 
 ing Jarge and remembering Nellie, was wonder- 
 ing what difference it would have made in the 
 
198 JUST FOLKS 
 
 Sergeant's "methods" if he could have known 
 these things. 
 
 "Was she gay at all?" he asked Mary. 
 
 "She be a little granehorn, wid no sinse yit," 
 the mother of Angela Ann replied. "I'm after 
 talkin' t' her the whole blissid time about kapin' 
 straight — as Miss Tully know — an' not l'avin' 
 'er go out nights. But I dunno ! Whin a girl 
 have her livin' t' make annywheer she kin find 
 it, an' her lovin' a good time as all young t'ings 
 does, an' min bein' what they are, 'tain't her 
 mother that know fer sure wheer she is or what 
 she be." 
 
 At this Pa sat suddenly forward in his chair, 
 forgetful of the pawn-ticket episode, and others 
 with the Maxwell Street police ; and the streak 
 of light from the lamp fell full across his face, 
 swollen with tears and streaked with the unpro- 
 tested grime of this awful day during which 
 he had sat by the kitchen stove and moaned, 
 "I dunno what I iver done that this t'ing should 
 'a' happened t' me !" 
 
 "She were a good girl !" he said to the de- 
 tective. "Her ma were awful aisy wid 'er, but 
 I'm strict, an' I kep' watch o' her." 
 
 Mary flashed him a look of scorn. "So far's 
 we know, she were a good girl," she amended, 
 still addressing the detective. "But she had 
 no sinse yit, bein' so young. An' the young 
 niver belaves the old an' theer wisdom. I 
 
JUST FOLKS 199 
 
 don' see how a girl o' mine could go wrong an' 
 me hatin' it the way I do. But she have more 
 o' him in her ner o' me, down t' thim same 
 shifty blue eyes that kin look so swate at ye, an' 
 God know what divilmint's behint thim !" 
 
 Pa smiled in wan coquetry at this charge 
 against his fascinations, but reiterated in de- 
 fence of his daughter — and of himself as a 
 strict parent : — 
 
 " She were a good girl ! I seen a piece o' this 
 world, of'cer, an' I kin till — min like us, we kin 
 till girls that's merely flightsome from thim 
 that's gon' t' th' bad. If she's bad, I don' want 
 ye t' find her. Jes' show me th' felly that lied 
 t' her, an' I'll kill 'im — but I don' want ye t' 
 find her. I don' niver want t' set eyes on 
 her agin if she 've disgraced me." 
 
 Beth was grateful to the detective for the un- 
 tempered scorn with which he treated this 
 heroic outburst of Pa's. There were more ques- 
 tions, mostly about Angela Ann's appearance, 
 the clothes she was wearing when she disap- 
 peared, how much of her wages she gave her ma, 
 and the names of any girls she ever went with. 
 
 On their way back to Maxwell Street, Beth 
 told the Sergeant about the red skirt and about 
 the fellow Angela had met at the Greek's. He 
 wanted to go at once to Blue Island Avenue 
 and interview Peter the Greek; but Beth pro- 
 tested. 
 
200 JUST FOLKS 
 
 "Try the donor of the red skirt, first," she 
 pleaded. " If you go to the Greek's, it'll spread 
 over the neighborhood in an hour that the 
 police are looking for Angela Ann." 
 
 Doonan demurred. "You're tryin' to save 
 the girl's reputation," he said, "and I'm tryin' 
 to save the girl." 
 
 "You're trying to find the girl," Beth cor- 
 rected. "There'll be no saving her if she 
 comes back, or is brought back, and finds 
 her reputation gone. Try the red-skirt fellow 
 first — I know how he looks — I'll go with you 
 and point him out." 
 
 So that was where, next morning, the search 
 for Angela Ann began. An inquiry of the youth 
 who had given the skirt, as to where Angela 
 "was workin' now" brought an unmistakably 
 indifferent reply. 
 
 "I ain't seen 'er in mont's," he said. And 
 even Doonan believed him. 
 
 They went next to the place where Beth had 
 got Angela a job — the job she had left on 
 Saturday. Here Beth talked to her acquaint- 
 ance to whom she had pleaded that Angela 
 needed the job. To him, under promise of se- 
 crecy, Beth confided that Angela was gone. 
 He did what he could to help. He tried to find 
 out from the other girls what her habits and 
 associations had been, but with no results that 
 led to anything but wild-goose chases for Doonan. 
 
JUST FOLKS 201 
 
 On his own initiative, Doonan canvassed the 
 five-cent theatres in the vicinity where Angela 
 had last worked, and other places where a girl 
 who had run away from home on more or less 
 innocent pleasure bent might indulge her first 
 selfishness. One splendid indulgence to which 
 Angela had always aspired was what she called 
 "K lunch," meaning the bakery luncheons 
 served in many stores throughout the city by a 
 firm whose name began with K. Doonan watched 
 these for several days, without results. 
 
 It began to seem less and less likely that 
 Angela had run away, taken another job, and 
 was testing the joy of keeping her earnings for 
 herself. For one thing, if she had to pay board, 
 she could hardly do it and have left over for 
 pleasures and clothes more than a pittance 
 which would soon cease to satisfy her. And for 
 another, the pitfalls were too numerous and too 
 cunningly laid to leave much hope that Angela 
 had avoided them. If they could find trace 
 of one particular fellow, they might reason- 
 ably conclude that Angela had gone with him. 
 If they could not, the worst of all possibilities 
 only was left : she had been trapped by the 
 powers that prey. Of this latter likelihood 
 Mary had, fortunately, little or no knowledge. 
 If she had ever heard of such things, she had 
 thought of them only as remote dangers. What 
 she feared most for Angela was what Beth was 
 
202 JUST FOLKS 
 
 beginning to wish she dared to hope : that the 
 girl had gone with some young fellow for whom 
 she had a feeling of attachment and who had 
 promised to give her "a good time" and was, 
 probably, doing it. 
 
 The only clews to a possible "beau" were the 
 admission Angela had made to Beth about a 
 "fella" she had met up at the Greek's, who had 
 taken her to the palm garden ; and something 
 she had said to her Aunt Maggie Kavanagh 
 about a stylish young man who could not be 
 asked to the back cellar on Henry Street. Aunt 
 Maggie, whose husband was a blacksmith, had 
 offered her own "parlie" for the courting. 
 
 "'Bring him here an' l'ave us have a look at 
 him,' I sez to her. 'Ye kin have th' parlie anny 
 toime ye want it,' I sez, 'an' if yer 'shamed o' 
 yer Uncle Tim's brogue, he kin stay in th' shop, 
 an' I'll talk t' him mesilf,' I sez." 
 
 But Angela Ann had not accepted this hand- 
 some offer, nor had she confided the name of the 
 young man to Mrs. Kavanagh, who only knew 
 Angela Ann had assured her he was a gentleman 
 beyond a doubt, for he had a gold watch and 
 chain. 
 
 Fired by this information, which he considered 
 an important clew, Casey was for carrying it 
 at once to the police so that they might investi- 
 gate all young men wearing gold watches and 
 thereby in due process find the one who knew 
 
JUST FOLKS 203 
 
 Angela Ann. But before he could get away 
 to furnish the detective with this important 
 information, Mrs. Kavanagh had made some 
 further suggestions. The chief of these was 
 touching the advisability of consulting a fortune- 
 teller. 
 
 "Thim coppers," she opined, "is no good. 
 Tim's after radin' a lot about thim in th' paapers, 
 an' he sez they niver ketch nothin' 't all. He 
 sint ye a dollar wid me, and sez he, 'You till 
 thim t' stop foolin' wid coppers an' go t' th' 
 forchune-teller,' sez he." 
 
 "I belave it have more t' do wid what th' 
 forchune-tellers know than wid what thim 
 coppers kin foind out," reflected Mary Casey. 
 "Theer's somet'ing I didn't till th' ditictive, 
 not knowin' how he'd take it — but the day 
 befoore Ang'la Ann wint, a quare, wan-eyed 
 cat kem here. Ivrywheer I wint thot day 
 she traipsed at me heels, an' all Monday night 
 whin I was up watchin' fer Ang'la, th' cat was 
 on th' windie-sill, howlin' what sounded joost 
 like Aan-g'la, Aan-g'la, Aan-g'la. Now what 
 dy'e make o' thot ?" 
 
 Mrs. Kavanagh had been fumbling in her 
 plush wrist-bag during this recital. "Say," she 
 said presently, holding out a very dirty card, 
 "th' las' night Ang'la Ann was t' our house 
 she was after l'avin' th' baby play wid her purse, 
 an' th' baby spilt all th' t'ings out av it. We 
 
2o 4 JUST FOLKS 
 
 picked thim up, an' I t'ought we got thim all, 
 but whin I was clanein' yiste'day, I foun' this 
 card. It mus' be hers, fer Tim say he niver 
 see it, an' no more did I." 
 The card read : — 
 
 CX HALBERG 
 
 Dramatic Agent — West Madison Street 
 
 "That's him, I bet ye !" cried Casey, excitedly; 
 "that's th' felly wid th' goP watch an' chain !" 
 
 "Wait a minute!" commanded Mrs. Kava- 
 nagh, impatiently. "Tim sez thot have somet'ing 
 t' do wid a theaytre.' 
 
 "Sure," said Mary Casey, "Ang'la Ann would- 
 n' be so grane as t' ixpict no theaytre guy t' 
 marry her ! She'd ought t' know thim niver 
 marries ; or if they do, they have a wife in ivry 
 town, loike soldiers an' travellin'-min ! I niver 
 bin to no theaytre in my life, but I know that 
 much !" 
 
 Casey, who had sat apathetically by the stove 
 ever since gray morning dawned after the frantic 
 vigil of Monday night, was struggling with the 
 lacings of his shoes preparatory to setting forth 
 
JUST FOLKS 205 
 
 to demolish O. Halberg if he proved his guilt by- 
 wearing a gold watch and chain. 
 
 "Ye kin spend yer dollar on yer wan-eyed cat," 
 he said indulgently, "but as fer me, I got t' foind 
 thot felly thot lied t' me girl." 
 
 So the inaction of the past three days was over, 
 temporarily at least. Casey was bound for O. 
 Halberg's, and Mrs. Casey and Mrs. Kavanagh 
 were going to approach some fortune-teller 
 with the dollar and the tale of the cat. But 
 first of all Mary must go to the school and take 
 Johnny out to mind the baby in her absence. 
 
 "Now, you be keerful," she adjured Casey as 
 he made ready to go, "an' don' kill nobody be 
 mistake. Th' bist way is t' kill nobody at all," 
 she continued cautiously. 
 
 In spite of this caution, however, there would 
 have been danger in prospect if Casey had 
 owned a gun or if he had taken a few drinks. 
 As it was, he was not a formidable figure when 
 he presented himself at the number on West 
 Madison Street, a few doors from Halsted. 
 
 There was a pawnshop on the first floor, and 
 beside it a narrow door, which opened upon a 
 long flight of wooden stairs rising steeply to 
 a dark hall, where, by the light of a two-foot gas 
 burner, Casey could make out the name "O. 
 Halberg" on one of the dozen doors. The 
 name was painted on a black tin plate tacked to 
 a rear door. Casey knocked. 
 
206 JUST FOLKS 
 
 "Come in," said a guttural voice. 
 
 Entering, Casey saw a man sitting with his 
 feet on a battered desk; he was reading the 
 morning paper and smoking a vile cigar. The 
 walls, kalsomined a kind of ultramarine blue, 
 but grimed and fouled unspeakably, were hung 
 with theatrical lithographs depicting thrilling 
 scenes from plays on the blood-and-thunder 
 circuit. For the rest, the furnishings were two 
 wooden chairs, a giant cuspidor, and the desk, 
 which looked as if it had never been new. 
 
 "Have I," said Casey in his grandest manner, 
 "th' honor t' addriss Mr. O. Halberg ?" 
 
 O. Halberg grunted that he had. Then 
 Casey advanced a step further into the room 
 and looked about for a sight or trace of Angela 
 Ann. Nothing could have been more damning 
 than O. Halberg's gold chain, but in no likelihood 
 would Angela Ann, by any stretch of courtesy, 
 have called him young; he was probably fifty, and 
 not prepossessing from any possible point of view. 
 
 "Me name is Casey," ventured the visitor; 
 "me girl is lost, an' I'm lookin' fer her. We 
 found this," proffering the dirty card, "an' we 
 t'ought mebbe you'd know wheer she is." 
 
 Casey was proud of the neatness and despatch 
 of his "ditictive" methods, but more than a little 
 disappointed to find so soon that he was on the 
 wrong trail entirely. Mr. Halberg was truly 
 surprised to be approached with any such 
 
JUST FOLKS 207 
 
 query. A great many little silly, stage-struck 
 girls flocked to see him, of course, and no doubt 
 some of them got hold of his cards " in the hope 
 of using them to impress managers," but he had 
 no recollection of any girl named Casey — none 
 whatever. And he resumed the reading of his 
 paper. 
 
 "I got th' coppers after her," murmured 
 Casey apologetically, as he took his leave, 
 "but thim coppers is no good. Ag'in ye want 
 ditictive work done, ye better do it yersilf." 
 
 O. Halberg did not deign to reply, but when 
 Casey was safely outside he stepped to the door 
 and locked it. In case the "coppers " came 
 around, it would be just as well to be "out" 
 — it would save the coppers some troublesome 
 pretence. 
 
 In his descent of the steep stairs Casey met 
 two girls coming up. They were about Angela 
 Ann's age and were giggling nervously. One of 
 them held between thumb and finger a quarter- 
 inch "ad" from a morning paper, offering: — 
 
 "High-salaried positions in good road com- 
 panies to young ladies of pleasing appearance. 
 O. Halberg, Dramatic Agent, — West Madison 
 Street." 
 
 "Ask him if this is the place," said the girl 
 who appeared to be following the other's lead. 
 Casey directed them to O. Halberg's door, then 
 went on his way. A moment later, while he 
 
208 JUST FOLKS 
 
 stood on the corner of Halsted Street waiting 
 for a south-bound car, he saw the girls emerge 
 from the door by the pawnshop. They passed 
 him as they went to take an east-bound Madison 
 Street car on the opposite corner. 
 
 "Did ye foind him ?" Casey asked. 
 
 "No, he wasn't in." 
 
 "That's quare," he said, startled; "he was 
 there wan minute before." 
 
 On his way home Casey dropped in at the 
 Maxwell Street Station in a free-and-easy manner 
 he could not have dreamed possible two days ago. 
 He was so full of his "ditictive" experience 
 that he felt he must have some one, if only a 
 copper, to talk it over with. Doonan wasn't in, 
 so Casey related his recent daring exploit to no 
 less a personage than the desk sergeant himself. 
 
 It was well poor Casey could not hear the desk 
 sergeant's account of the call after the self- 
 appointed sleuth had gone on his way. 
 
 Mrs. Casey was at home when her husband 
 got there. Relating her adventures, after she 
 had listened to his, she said that the fortune-teller, 
 after accepting the dollar, had asked several 
 searching questions about the one-eyed cat. 
 
 "'Ag'in th' cat come back, yer girl '11 come 
 home,' she sez t' me." 
 
 The days dragged by. There seemed to be 
 a complete lapse of the stone-cutting industry, 
 
JUST FOLKS 209 
 
 so Casey had nothing to take his mind from his 
 "ditictive" operations, which were interesting 
 and unexhausting, though expensive in car fare 
 and unproductive of results. 
 
 As time wore on, the poignant horror of 
 Angela Ann's absence grew mercifully less for 
 all but Mary Casey. Night after night she 
 wept the long hours through, until Casey 
 complained of the depressing effect of her grief, 
 and she felt constrained to hide it. 
 
 "If I could on'y know she were dacintly 
 dead," was her heart's cry, as better hopes 
 died in her. "Ag'in a bye l'ave home, he kin 
 knock around an' pick up a bite here an' a lodgin' 
 theer, an' be none th' worse fer it. But a girl 
 bees difl'runt ! Theer 's always thim watchin' 
 'round thot's riddy t' do her harm." 
 
 Meanwhile she lied bravely to the neighbors. 
 "Angela Ann bees livin' out an' have th' grandes' 
 place," she told them impressively; "th' lady 
 she live wid 's after takin' her to Floridy fer to 
 mind her little bye." 
 
 Mary's hope was strong that Christmas would 
 see the wanderer's return; but the holidays 
 passed in unrewarded waiting. Casey had per- 
 force abandoned his search, and worked a day 
 or two now and then. Though the traces of 
 really terrible suffering were still in his weak, 
 winsome face, he had long since forsaken all hope 
 of Angela Ann's "safety with honor"; and, 
 
210 JUST FOLKS 
 
 when it had come to seem unlikely that she 
 ever would do so, took comfort in vowing that 
 she should never again darken the door of his 
 outraged home. 
 
 Mary gave over pleading for her girl, in the 
 interests of family peace, but, more and more the 
 embodiment of woe as the weeks wore away, 
 she haunted localities where Angela Ann had 
 been or might be. Sometimes she had wee 
 Annie in her arms, but oftener she left her at 
 Aunt Maggie's, and roamed the streets unham- 
 pered in her never-ending quest. 
 
 Evenings she would say, "I'll be goin' t' yer 
 aunt's a bit," and slip away into the engulfing 
 dark, to reappear in the glare of light marking the 
 entrance to some cheap West Side theatre or 
 dance hall. Gradually her excursions extended 
 down town, where she would take up her station 
 at the door of some place of amusement and 
 stand watching the pleasure-seekers pour in ; 
 then turn away and wander aimlessly up and 
 down the streets for an hour or so before facing 
 homeward. In some way she heard about 
 stage doors, and took to haunting them. She 
 saw many girls of Angela's type, and wondered 
 sadly if their mothers knew where they were; 
 but her own girl was not among them. In those 
 nights on the flaming streets she learned more 
 about vice than she had ever dreamed of in 
 all her life, and the world came to seem to 
 
JUST FOLKS 211 
 
 her a vast trap set by the bestial for the 
 unwary. 
 
 Not hunger, nor cold, nor abuse, nor sickness, 
 nor death, as it came to four of her children, had 
 driven Mary Casey to anything like the poign- 
 ancy of feeling that was hers now. Heretofore 
 she had been patiently dumb under affliction ; 
 now her spirit cried out in a passion of pain that 
 called straight upon Almighty God for an an- 
 swer to its anguished questionings. 
 
 With the aid of Casey, she pored over the 
 sensational papers in search of stories about girls 
 in trouble, and never a horror happened to an 
 unidentified girl anywhere but Mary was sure it 
 was Angela Ann. 
 
 Once there was an account of an unknown 
 young woman found dead on the prairies near 
 Dunning, the county institution. It was Johnny 
 who laboriously spelled out this story for her — 
 Casey having gone to that club of congenial 
 spirits, O'Shaughnessy's saloon — and at ten 
 o'clock, when the children were all abed, her 
 anxieties could brook no more delay. Throwing 
 a shawl about her head and shoulders, she stole 
 along the pitchy passageway, up the long flight 
 of steps to the sidewalk, clutching the torn frag- 
 ment of newspaper in the hand that held the 
 shawl together beneath her chin. 
 
 It was Saturday night, and the avenue was 
 still brightly lighted. One or two acquaintances 
 
212 JUST FOLKS 
 
 greeted her, but she hurried by with only a nod 
 and a word. At Harrison and Halsted Streets 
 and Blue Island Avenue, where three streams of 
 ceaseless activity converge, there is always a 
 whirlpool rapids of traffic and humanity, and 
 there, in a drug store, Mary felt far enough from 
 her own haunts and all who knew her and Angela 
 Ann to venture on her errand. 
 
 "I want t' tillyphone," she whispered to the 
 clerk, who pointed impatiently to the booth. 
 
 "I dunno how," said Mary, imploringly. "I 
 want ye t' do it fer me. R'ade that." She 
 thrust the dirty, crumpled fragment of the even- 
 ing's yellow journal into his hand. 
 
 The young man glanced at it, and then curi- 
 ously at her. "I've read it," he said. 
 
 "Down here, somewheers," said Mary, point- 
 ing vaguely towards the last paragraph, "it till 
 wheer she be, an' I want ye t' tillyphone that 
 place an' ask thim have she a large brown mole 
 on her lift side. If she have, I'm goin' out theer 
 this night, for 'tis my girl I t'ink she be." 
 
 This was not as startling an episode to the 
 young man addressed as it might have been to 
 one in a quieter locality. Nevertheless, it 
 smacked of the dramatic sufficiently to interest 
 him, and when Mary proffered her nickel he 
 called up the Dunning morgue. 
 
 After what seemed an interminable wait, 
 while the sleepy morgue attendant at the county 
 
JUST FOLKS 213 
 
 poorhouse was being summoned by repeated 
 rings, and the brief colloquy was in progress, 
 the clerk emerged from the booth. 
 
 "The girl has been identified this evening," 
 he said. 
 
 Disappointment mingled with relief in Mary's 
 countenance ; she had reached that stage where 
 it would have been not altogether unendurable 
 to look at Angela Ann's dead face, even in a 
 morgue. 
 
 As she retraced her way home, the chill of the 
 sharp February night struck into her mercilessly. 
 When she set forth, she had scarcely noticed it 
 in her preoccupation ; but now that another 
 expectation, however tragic, had proved false, 
 and the situation stretched ahead of her in- 
 definitely dull and despairing again, the abrupt 
 relaxation left her physically as well as mentally 
 "let down," and she shivered violently as she 
 hurried along. 
 
 "Mother o' God," she cried, the tears rolling 
 swiftly down her shrunken cheeks, "wheer is 
 my girl this night ? If I could on'y know she 
 had a roof over her head an' a fire t' kape her 
 warm !" 
 
 Casey was still out when she got back, and 
 she was thankful, for the sight of her tears made 
 him ugly these days. "She 've disgraced us," 
 he said of Angela Ann, "an' she be dead t' me, 
 an' ought t' be t' you, if ye had proper shame." 
 
214 JUST FOLKS 
 
 "The new wan" came late in February, and 
 was a boy. He was to be named Patrick for his 
 pa. The first child of the family had borne 
 the name, but he was long since dead ; and now 
 the New One was to have it and do it honor. 
 
 Beth went to see Patrick when he was two 
 days old, and there was no mistaking the hap- 
 piness he brought to his family. 
 
 Somehow, in all the dire poverty of the win- 
 ter — Beth had had to intervene more than 
 once to save the stove from "bein' took" — 
 the Cyclopaedia remained. The enforced educa- 
 tional zeal of Johnny and Dewey had lapsed, 
 and the "aisy paymints" emporium had seized 
 the sanguinary book-case. But the "wolumes" 
 were still there, owing to the greater leniency of 
 the newspaper over the emporium, and to the 
 fact that whenever they were threatened, Pa 
 showed such keen regret, such letting down 
 of his high hopes for the new wan, that Mary 
 made some sacrifice of food or warmth and kept 
 the " twinty-sivin " ranged on a rude shelf in 
 the "front room." The shelf was covered with 
 lace shelf-paper in three different-colored layers 
 — red and green and yellow — and was, with 
 the "wolumes," the chief furnishing of that 
 chill best room which was to be a "parlie" 
 some day when Pa's "gran' job" persisted long 
 enough. 
 
 On the occasion of Beth's call, Pa — who had 
 
JUST FOLKS 215 
 
 all too evidently accepted an unwise number of 
 toasts to the new wan's health — carried wee 
 Patsy, shrouded in his ma's black shawl, into 
 the front room and held him up to view the 
 "wolumes." 
 
 "Look at th' l'arnin' yer Pa have laid by fer 
 ye," he adjured his son. And Patsy blinked, 
 unmoved by the appalling weight of wisdom 
 that was apportioned to him. 
 
 He was to be christened on Tuesday — this 
 was Sunday — in the Holy Family Church. His 
 Aunt Maggie was "after lindin' him a swell 
 dress t' wear," and there was going to be a 
 christening party afterwards. Pa was "takin' 
 special intrust in the christenin'," Mary informed 
 Beth, "an' is goin' t' carry Patsy t' the church 
 himself. What's worryin' him now is the god- 
 parents. He don' want no ordinary ignyram- 
 muses standin' up fer Patsy that some day 
 Patsy 'd be ashamed t' own. We thought o' 
 you, Miss Tully, now, an' that young man o' 
 yours that write fer the paper. If he could 
 bring another writer or same wan like that, an' 
 the three o' ye stan' up fer Patsy, it'd be some- 
 thin' like." 
 
 Beth accepted for herself, and said she thought 
 she might accept for Mr. Ferris ; about the third 
 godparent, she didn't know. But she would see 
 Mr. Ferris this evening and ask him to do what 
 he could. 
 
216 JUST FOLKS 
 
 Hart Ferris was willing, as Beth knew he 
 would be, not only to stand godfather to wee 
 Patsy, but to look for another — which he had 
 no difficulty in doing. He mentally passed in 
 review a number of clever young fellows he 
 knew who wrote books, and corking good books, 
 too — but, by Jove ! none of them looked im- 
 pressive, any more than he himself did. Seemed 
 as if Patsy ought to have one godparent who 
 looked like incarnate wisdom, like a walking 
 Cyclopaedia ! There was one man Ferris knew 
 who looked like that — he was one of the minor 
 book reviewers on the paper — but his sense of 
 humor was rudimentary, and he might not be 
 appealed to by the prospect of being Patsy's 
 godfather. When, however, Ferris had broken 
 the news to him in a way that enlisted his in- 
 terest and consent, Ferris began to feel that a 
 mere newspaper job should no longer hold him. 
 "The real place for me," he told Beth, "is at 
 the court of Austria, or Germany, or wherever 
 diplomacy is at its greatest premium to-day." 
 
 But, alas ! and alas ! the christening so nobly 
 planned, and so ably carried out, was destined 
 to be followed soon by mourning. Poor Patsy 
 caught cold, in the big, draughty church, and 
 the cold developed into what the family called 
 "the ammonia on the lungs," and in two days 
 after he was christened, wee Patsy was dead, 
 and there was woe in the house of his kindred. 
 
JUST FOLKS 217 
 
 There are people in this world who seem to 
 think it's comparatively easy to give up a little 
 tiny baby you've only had a few days — es- 
 pecially if you have seven other children; but 
 that's because they don't know how many 
 hopes are builded about each New One, how 
 many fair dreams die when the little New One 
 slips away again. There were people who thought 
 Patsy's coming and going was just a matter of 
 "a baby more or less" to the Caseys ; but it 
 was much, much more than that. It seemed, 
 somehow, that when he went, the promise of 
 splendidly better things went, too. 
 
 And, what made the going harder still, there 
 was no money to bury him with ! "Me scrimpin' 
 and pinchin' t' pay for insur'nce all along," 
 wept poor Mary, "an' whin I nade a fun'ral, 
 'tis fer the wan child that's not insured." 
 
 They owned a single grave in Calvary; in it 
 were the two children that were dead these 
 many years — little Mamie and little Patsy — 
 and the law would allow them to put a third 
 tiny body in with the others. But there was a 
 coffin to be bought, and an interment fee to be 
 paid, and somehow or other Patsy must be got 
 to his burial. 
 
 Beth felt unable to help much, unless she 
 absolutely must. She suggested that Ferris 
 pass a hat in his office. "'Twouldn't do any 
 good," he said, "I never knew such a 'broke' 
 
218 JUST FOLKS 
 
 bunch. A hat passed there now wouldn't come 
 back with the lining in — if it was a good lining." 
 So it was decided to see if the Parish would do 
 aught for Patsy. 
 
 Pa went to the priest who had christened 
 Patsy, and told of Patsy's death. The priest 
 was Irish — a big, kindly young fellow who had 
 been a peasant boy in County Kerry and knew 
 the sorrows of the poor. He went over to 
 Henry Street an hour or two afterward, carrying 
 a tiny white coffin in which he helped to lay 
 Patsy; and out of the pockets of his overcoat 
 the priest brought candles for Patsy's head and 
 feet. They made a bier of two yellow-painted 
 kitchen chairs, and laid Patsy in his little white 
 coffin upon it, and lighted the tapers, and the 
 other children knelt around Patsy, murmuring 
 their prayers for the repose of his soul. It was 
 a picture — a great picture : the gloomy front 
 room where the sunshine never came ; the little 
 bit of dazzling whiteness in the shadows, that 
 Patsy's coffin made ; the tall tapers ; the tear- 
 drenched childish faces ; the awe ; the Mystery. 
 
 When he left, the priest said he would see 
 what he could do about the funeral, and straight 
 he went to another house in the Nineteenth Ward, 
 where also a son lay dead and many hopes were 
 dead with him. It was the house of a powerful 
 Irish politician and saloon-keeper, and the son 
 was a young man nineteen years old and the 
 
JUST FOLKS 219 
 
 pride of his father's heart — which was, after 
 the queer fashion of human nature, no less 
 tender because his conscience was full of callous 
 spots. The priest told the saloon-keeper about 
 Patsy, drew for him a sympathetic picture of 
 the scene he had just left, and — 
 
 "Sure, he can come along with my boy," 
 said the Boss. "My boy was always one to 
 share what he had when he was alive, an' I 
 guess he'd be more'n glad to share his fun'ral — 
 the last thing I can ever give him." 
 
 So, back to Henry Street the priest went, and 
 told the Caseys that Patsy was to "come along" 
 in the rich young man's funeral. If Pa would 
 carry him over to the church in the morning, 
 before ten, he was welcome to share in the 
 requiem high mass, and the hundreds of tapers, 
 and the loads and loads of flowers, and the 
 grand, expensive singing. He was welcome, too, 
 to ride to Calvary in the rich young man's 
 hearse; and there'd be two carriages for the 
 parents and children to ride in. 
 
 When Mary heard this, her tears flowed 
 afresh. "Poor little Patsy!" she sobbed. 
 "Seem like he was born t' be lucky, an' he died 
 before he had a chance t' find it out." 
 
 There was one mark of respect she could 
 show him, though — one manifestation of her 
 grief she could afford to make : she sent Midget 
 to Blue Island Avenue with twenty-five cents 
 
220 JUST FOLKS 
 
 and instructions to invest it in "th' bist black 
 dye." And into the wash-tub, on Midget's 
 return, went the package of dye and several 
 pails of water and everything belonging to the 
 Caseys that could, by any stretch of courtesy or 
 the imagination, be called a garment. 
 
 All night the kitchen hung full of coats and 
 skirts and capes and pinafores, all dripping, 
 dripping, like Mary's slow, unceasing tears. 
 And in the morning there issued from the Casey 
 cellar a procession as sable-solemn as anything 
 that Henry Street had ever seen. 
 
 It was a "gran', imprissive fun'ral" that little 
 Patsy had. And when the Caseys were at home 
 again and the neighbors came crowding in to 
 hear about it, the wash-tub, still half full of dye, 
 was standing in the corner on the kitchen floor. 
 
 "If anny o' you," said Mary, indicating the 
 tub, "'d like t' use some o' that, yer welcome. 
 Patsy had a fine fun'ral lint 'im, an' I'm sure 
 he'd be glad, in 'is turn, t' lind some o' his 
 mournin'." 
 
 Which was how a considerable part of Henry 
 Street may be said to have gone with the Caseys 
 into mourning for Patsy. 
 
 "Of course," said Beth to Ferris, telling him 
 about the myriad "mourners," "their motive 
 was economic, not emotional ; but perhaps it's 
 not unlike some other mourning garb on that 
 account." 
 
JUST FOLKS 221 
 
 Thus Patsy came and went. The span be- 
 tween whence we come and whither we go is 
 brief at best. And Patsy managed to bring 
 with him a good deal of the tender glory of the 
 place whence he came, and to take with him a 
 great deal of new hope of the place whither he 
 was gone. And, when all is said and done, 
 what immortal spirit can, in its mortal span, 
 do more than that for itself or for the rest of 
 mortality ? 
 
 Except with her mother, hope for Angela Ann 
 had died a lingering death. But with Mary, 
 her girl that was gone was still the most vital 
 thing in life. 
 
 The first time she came to see Beth after the 
 New One had come and gone, Mary said, with 
 an intensity that fairly startled Beth : — 
 
 "D'ye know what I'm prayin', now ?" 
 
 "No. What?" 
 
 " Ye'll be shocked wid me — ?" 
 
 "Of course I won't ! I couldnH be shocked 
 with you." 
 
 They two were together in Beth's little bed- 
 room, whither Mary felt she must withdraw out 
 of hearing of Liza and Adam, when she wished 
 to speak of Angela. 
 
 "I'm prayin'," she said, "that Angela'll git 
 a baby — a little bit o' baby ! Sure, if anny 
 wan 'd iver toP me I'd pray that about a girl o' 
 
222 JUST FOLKS 
 
 mine that's not married, I'd V kilt thim. But 
 don' ye see ? If she'd git a little baby, wouldn' 
 it be a lot better fer 'er nor goin' t' th' bad fer 
 impty plisure ? I seen t'ings since she wint, 
 Miss Beth, that I niver dreamed of before in all 
 my life, an' I'm prayin' God t' sind me girl a 
 baby that'll wake th' bist in 'er an' mebbe t'ach 
 'er how mothers love an' bring 'er home agin 
 t' me." 
 
 And for weary weeks thereafter, Mary cher- 
 ished the hope of Angela Ann coming, trembling, 
 along the board walk to the kitchen door, with 
 her baby in her arms ; and the thought of how 
 surprised she'd be at the gladness of her wel- 
 come; and the new understanding they would 
 have, each of the other — she and Angela Ann 
 — in their common motherhood. 
 
XII 
 
 Mary Casey undoubtedly had a great deal 
 to stand ; but no more than the days of any 
 other mortal with an inextinguishable zest for 
 life, were hers without enlivening. On the con- 
 trary, it was one of the best evidences of Mary's 
 truly big nature that she never neglected any 
 opportunity for diversion that came her way. 
 
 Beth and Eleanor, talking her over as they 
 delighted to do for their own deeper instruction 
 in the wisdom of life, could not sufficiently extol 
 her elasticity of spirit. But it solved, of course, 
 what might otherwise have been the problem of 
 how she kept herself so strong to bear. 
 
 Even in the midst of all her suffering over 
 Angela Ann and her gentler grief for the passing 
 of Patsy, she had her intervals of comedy relief, 
 her alternation of smiles with tears. Mary Casey 
 lived too deeply and truly to miss any essential 
 element of life. There was nothing more splen- 
 didly real about her than the way shade and shine 
 played on each other's heels in her days. 
 
 There was, for instance, the relief afforded by 
 the Riordans, a numerous clan newly moved in 
 upstairs. Riordan was a piano-mover and his 
 
 223 
 
224 JUST FOLKS 
 
 prowess was the pride of his children; he had 
 dreams of becoming a policeman, some day, and 
 the Riordans held themselves rather mightily, in 
 consequence. Mrs. Riordan also was endowed 
 with energy; but hers was chiefly linguistic. 
 
 It was the tactlessness of Mis' Shugar, the 
 Jewish landlady, which started things wrong for 
 the Caseys and Riordans. "It iss Irish peebles 
 in below of you," she told Mrs. Riordan when 
 renting to her, and went on to acquaint her with 
 very interesting details about the Caseys. 
 
 Mrs. Riordan sniffed — and the sniff was a 
 declaration of war. "Theer's mos'ly low Irish 
 livin' aroun' here," she said loftily, "an' me an' 
 my fam'ly don' take up wid 'em at all." 
 
 Nevertheless, she plied Mis' Shugar with a 
 number of questions about the Caseys' past and 
 present, and further pursued the same line of 
 investigation with the Rubovitzes — mother and 
 children — and the Spiridovitches, and with all 
 the others of her new neighbors above and below 
 and beside, who could "understan' annythin' 
 but gibberish," as Mrs. Riordan put it. Ac- 
 cordingly, when the first shot was fired it was 
 from a full arsenal on Mrs. Riordan's side, and 
 it fell into an unprepared but not — as will be 
 seen — into a defenceless camp when it landed 
 on Mary Casey hanging a few dingy-colored 
 clothes to dry in the low, oozy back yard. 
 
 What landed was a tin handbasinful of dirty 
 
JUST FOLKS 225 
 
 water wherein several small Riordans had suc- 
 cessively performed compulsory ablutions — to 
 the no great improvement of the last in line. 
 The water fell with a splud, not a foot from where 
 Mary Casey stood, and part of it splashed mud 
 up on her low-hanging sheets, and part sprayed 
 her. 
 
 She looked up, resentfully, but her tone was 
 quiet — as it always was — when she spoke. 
 "That's no way t' be doin'," she said, "t'rowin' 
 slops on a body's clane clo'es." 
 
 Mrs. Riordan was ready. "Clane?" she 
 sneered, "clane ? Sure I t'ought a little water'd 
 do thim good." 
 
 This was a crucial moment, for by the nature of 
 Mrs. Casey's reply Mrs. Riordan could judge 
 whether or not she had a foeman worthy of her 
 steel. 
 
 "It might 'ave," returned Mary, imperturb- 
 ably, pointing to the mud bespattering her sheets, 
 "if ye hadn' washed yer face in it first." 
 
 Mrs. Riordan snorted with mingled rage and 
 excitement ; it was going to be a fine fight ! 
 
 The hostilities thus opened continued briskly; 
 hardly an hour passed without some sharp skir- 
 mishing, and never a day went by without an 
 engagement of sufficient magnitude to be called 
 a battle. As neither participant-in-chief ever 
 entered the other's flat, and both of them used 
 infrequently the inside hall of pitchy blackness 
 
226 JUST FOLKS 
 
 and stairs of corkscrew turnings which were 
 "the back way" to the dwellers in front rooms 
 and "the front way" to dwellers in the rear, 
 most of the action took place in the yard — to 
 the no small satisfaction of those neighbors who 
 lived in rear rooms. 
 
 The offensive attitude was Mrs. Riordan's 
 exclusively; Mary preferred the retort to the 
 opening fire. "Anny wan can begin a fight," 
 she said to those partisans of hers who were con- 
 tinually suggesting to her a strategy of attack, 
 "but it take rale brains t' finish wan." And it 
 was observable to every one — even to Mrs. 
 Riordan — that Mary usually did the finishing. 
 Even Pa Casey's admiration was compelled by 
 his wife's efficiency. 
 
 Every time he came in he would inquire for the 
 latest news from the seat of war. He was one 
 of the chief of those who presumed to offer Mary 
 advice as to how she should conduct her cam- 
 paign ; but his advice was never taken. None 
 the less, he believed himself to be the inspiration 
 of his wife's wittiest retorts, and as such he 
 bragged loudly at O'Shaughnessy's saloon. This 
 came to the ears of Mrs. Riordan — whose 
 better half also frequented O'Shaughnessy's 
 — and she taunted Mary with it. 
 
 "Sure," said Mary, cheerfully, "Casey do be 
 a great hilp t' me. He fin' out from Riordan, 
 when Riordan's drunk, what ye're practisin' 
 
JUST FOLKS 227 
 
 up t' say t' me ; an' whin I come out here t' min' 
 me bit o' business, yer spielin's that old t' me 
 I don' bother me hid wid listenin' til it." 
 
 This untruth cost Riordan a warlike evening 
 and caused him to vent his injured feelings on 
 Pa Casey, to the enlivening of a jaded hour in 
 O'Shaughnessy's saloon. 
 
 Much incensed, Pa carried the fight back to 
 Mary on whose head he intended the brunt of 
 the blow should fall, like a properly returned 
 boomerang. 
 
 "This here rag-chewin' wid the Riordan 
 woman's got to stop!" he declared, bringing 
 his stone-cutter's fist down on the table with an 
 emphasis that made the dishes dance. 
 
 Mary eyed him scornfully ; the pride of the 
 victor was in her veins and the novel sensation 
 was doing her a world of good. 
 
 "Got t' stop, have it?" she echoed. "Well, 
 I'll tell ye how t' stop it ! You git a job, an' 
 stay in it. Whin ye're workin' stiddy we can 
 move out o' this onhilthy cellar, an' go t' some 
 place wheer the neighbors'll have t' rayspict us. 
 What's the r'ason a woman like th' Riordan 
 woman dare t' come barkin' aroun' me that kin 
 silence 'er every time, an' she know it ? On'y 
 because you ain't got no job, an' she know it ! 
 On'y because yer bye Mikey's in the refarm school 
 wheer yer drivin' of him an' continual restin' of 
 yersilf have sint him — an' she know it ! On'y 
 
228 JUST FOLKS 
 
 because we're behin' han' wid th' rint — an' she 
 know it ! An' that ixpinsive iducation ye're after 
 buyin' fer poor little Patsy that didn' nade it, 
 's goin' t' git took off of us if I can't skimp 
 enough out o' the childern's stum'cks to make 
 a paymint on 't nixt wake — an' she know it ! 
 'Tain't me that pervide her wid subjicks o' con- 
 versation ; 'tis yersilf ! An' 'tis yersilf that kin 
 stop 'er, if ye want 'er stopped ! " 
 
 There was always a fine uncertainty 1 how Pa 
 would receive a thrust like this ; whether 
 with return thrust, lunging viciously, or with 
 parry, discoursing pathetically on the times 
 and how out of joint they are, or with a display 
 of nimble dodging which caused one's ireful 
 stroke to pierce only thin air instead of Pa's 
 slothful and complacent mind. 
 
 This time he dodged. "Beats all," he philoso- 
 phized, "how women will pry an' gossip. A man 
 have no peace wid 'em at all — they're always 
 wantin' t' till 'im what the woman up-stairs had 
 on whin she wint t' the store, er how wasteful 
 she pales her pitaties. 'Tis no kind av talk at 
 all — an' if a man want to hear better, he've 
 got t' go wheer there's no women's tongues 
 a-waggin'." 
 
 And, with an aggrieved manner, Pa put on his 
 hat and went up to O'Shaughnessy's. 
 
 "Yer pa have gran' argymints," Mary flung 
 after him as he went — nominally addressing 
 
JUST FOLKS 229 
 
 the children, but actually having the last word 
 with Pa — " sure, 'tis one o' these here lawyers 
 he ought t' have been — er anny job wheer 
 gab'll git ye bread an' butter an' ye've no nade 
 t' work at all." 
 
 But Pa was gone — as is the immemorial way 
 with men — and the situation in the Casey 
 household remained just about what the situation 
 had been since the Casey household began to be. 
 
 "That's all ye'll iver git out o' Pa!" ob- 
 served Johnny, bitterly. "Whin ye tell 'im yer 
 hungry, he put on his hat an' go t' O'Shaugh- 
 nessy's an' spind his las' quarter gittin' drunk." 
 
 Mary looked at her son. The harsh contempt 
 in his voice, the sharp disgust in his boyish, 
 almost childish, face, with its dimples that were 
 made for smiles, hurt her intolerably. 
 
 "Johnny," she said, "our Mikey ain' goin' t' 
 git out o' wheer he is fer quite a long time. An' 
 Ang'la Ann may not come back fer a while. We 
 can't go on livin' like this, an' theer's on'y two 
 t'ings I can t'ink of that we kin do. Wan o' 
 thim is that I kin git some dishwashing t' do in 
 some restyraunt on Twelfth Street, like I used t' 
 do, er go down town nights t' scrub buildin's ; and 
 th' other is t' try an' git you leave t' work. I'm 
 after talkin' t' Miss Tully about it, an' she say 
 she'll spake t' th' fact'ry inspicter about ye. An' 
 I'm t' take ye over theer an' show ye to 'im, till 
 he see does he want t' lit ye work." 
 
230 JUST FOLKS 
 
 " I want t' work, all right," said Johnny, with 
 a bluff, brave tone and a manly hitching of his 
 trousers which, we all know, is sure outward evi- 
 dence that something conclusive has happened 
 in the male mind. 
 
 His mother went to the dark closet off the 
 "front" bedroom and after some deep delving 
 reappeared with a half-dozen nondescript things 
 which she ranged in review on the kitchen table. 
 Close inspection would have revealed them to be 
 the battered and weather-beaten remains of 
 what had once been hats — all "hand-downs" 
 from a variety of sources and none of them at any 
 time nicely related to Mary's looks or needs. 
 One after the other, she scrutinized them. 
 
 "What are them for?" asked Johnny. 
 
 "That's what I can't tell ye," his mother 
 replied. "They're the last o' the Morgans, 
 I'm thinkin', an' if I kin fin' wan o' thim that won' 
 scare a man, I'm goin' t' take you t' the mogul 
 that have so much t' say about who'll work an' 
 who will not." 
 
 Mrs. Riordan saw them when they went out. 
 "Seems t' me," she observed, hanging over her 
 porch rail in a leisurely way that belied her 
 energetic preachment, " that some folks'd better 
 stay home an' do their week's wash — which 
 they ain't touched yet — instid av gallivantin' 
 out wid fithered bunnits on 'em." 
 
 Mary looked up at her and smiled, showing 
 
JUST FOLKS 231 
 
 her sad lack of teeth. "Work is fer thimthat 
 has to," she said loftily, "as fer me, I'm livin' 
 on th' intrust o' me money." 
 
 The factory inspector was one of those rare 
 mortals, a reformer with a sense of humor. He 
 listened with infinite appreciation to Mary's 
 recital of the reasons why it was necessary for 
 Johnny to have a job, and his face was a study 
 in repression when she came to the tale of the 
 Cyclopaedia. 
 
 "Your husband must be a most unusual sort 
 of man," he remarked gravely. He had been 
 fully posted by Beth on the Casey history. 
 
 "Humph!" said Mary, "I've seen plinty o' 
 the same sort, in my time ; the ,woods is pritty 
 full o' thim, on Hinry Strate ; 'tis the commonist 
 complaint we've got." 
 
 "I don't mean his laziness," the inspector has- 
 tened to explain ; "I mean his love of learning." 
 
 Mary's look was scathing. "Ye mane his 
 love o' showin' off, I guess. If theer was on'y 
 some way he could arn his livin' be showin' off, 
 sure no wan could bate him to it. 'Tis a pity you 
 that's so smart t' till childern they shan't work 
 an' kape from starvin', couldn' have a daypart- 
 mint t' till min like Casey they shan't ate — ner 
 drink — onliss they work." 
 
 "You could have him putin jail," suggested the 
 inspector. 
 
232 JUST FOLKS 
 
 "Thank ye," said Mary, "I've wan in jail 
 now, an' I don' find it no aid t' me income." 
 
 The inspector admitted the force of this argu- 
 ment. "Well," he said, "I can get him a job — " 
 
 "He kin git hisself a job, a' right," Mary in- 
 terrupted. "What he nade is a law t' make him 
 kape it!" 
 
 "There couldn't be a law like that," the 
 inspector explained; "it would be an injustice 
 to a lot of men who had good reason for wanting 
 to quit their jobs. But I wouldn't be above a 
 little deceit with Casey — I wouldn't mind trying 
 to make him believe there was such a law — " 
 (this was part of a plot laid with Beth). 
 
 "You couldn' do it !" said Mary, promptly 
 
 "Let me try," he begged, smiling. "Before 
 we put Johnny, here, to work while he ought 
 to be in school learning, and out doors playing 
 ball and growing big and strong so he won't be 
 like poor Mikey that you tell about, let me see 
 if I can't do something with Pa." 
 
 Mary's easy hopefulness grasped at this offer. 
 "If ye on'y could, now," she murmured grate- 
 fully. " Ye've no idare what a fine man Casey'd 
 be, if he could just git it into his hid that he 
 wanted t' work." 
 
 "Well, I'll be around to see him this evening, 
 about supper time. *And all you and Johnny 
 have got to do is not to let on that you've ever 
 seen me before." 
 
JUST FOLKS 233 
 
 "Sure, we'll do that," said Mary. "But ye 
 ain't manein' him anny harm, are ye ? I 
 wouldn' do nothin' t' l'ave him be harmed. He 
 do vex me, at times, an' make t'ings hard fer the 
 childern, but theer ain't nothin' bad about him." 
 
 The inspector assured her that he meant no 
 possible harm to Pa. "But I think I can get 
 him a job," he said, "and if I do, perhaps I can 
 make him believe he's got to keep it." 
 
 Accordingly, that evening when the family was 
 at supper, an important-looking gentleman called, 
 looking for Patrick Casey. The Cairo and 
 Chicago R. R., he said, was building a new bridge 
 over the Sandstone River at Monovia, Illinois. 
 An additional stone-cutter was needed for work 
 on the piers, and the company, having heard of 
 the excellence of Mr. Casey's work, had sent to 
 offer the job to him. 
 
 Pa glanced around the family circle to make 
 sure they realized what was happening, and 
 after due consideration and discussion of ways 
 and means — and wages — accepted. 
 
 "Good!" said the caller as if now his mind 
 were at rest about the safety of the bridge. "I 
 have the company's contract with me, Mr. 
 Casey, all ready for your signature." And he 
 produced a formidable-looking document, much 
 ornamented with red and gilt seals, and a silver- 
 scrolled fountain-pen. 
 
234 JUST FOLKS 
 
 "Contrack ?" said Pa, his eyes opening wide 
 at the sight, "I ain't niver signed no contrack 
 before." 
 
 The inspector looked surprised. "Well, prob- 
 ably not," he admitted, "but I should think a 
 man of your well-known skill would always have 
 insisted on it. What right has any corporation 
 to approach you with a request to work for it, 
 to ask you to leave your family and go to Mono- 
 via, without giving you its legally-attested 
 guarantee that when you get there you will find 
 the work as described to you ? This contract pro- 
 vides that the company furnish you with free 
 transportation to Monovia ; that it pay you the 
 union scale for stone-cutting during all the 
 time you are in its employ ; and it assures you 
 employment every day for a period of not less 
 than six months. It is not often, Mr. Casey, that 
 a man of your known abilities will accept a posi- 
 tion without a contract. In the professional and 
 higher mercantile worlds, no one would dream 
 of so doing. Why, then, should the skilled 
 laborer be asked to do less ?" 
 
 "That's what I've niver been able t' see!" 
 said Pa, indignantly, as he reached for the pen 
 to sign his name. He had the air of a states- 
 man to whom has come at last the moment 
 when what he has long contended for needs 
 only his signature to become a law. It was a 
 breathless moment in the Caseys' family history, 
 
JUST FOLKS 23s 
 
 and no one enjoyed it so much as Pa — not 
 even Mary. 
 
 "I'll be around in the morning, Mr. Casey," the 
 inspector said, "and take you down to the depot 
 and introduce you to the company's agent." 
 
 When he was gone, the Caseys sat for a few 
 seconds in a silence no one of them dared to 
 break. Then Pa, looking scornfully at the 
 meagre supper table, said : — 
 
 "Johnny, go up t' Schmidinger's an' git two 
 lemon cream pies, on me word." 
 
 After supper, Pa got together his tools, left 
 explicit orders about having his "things washed 
 up," and went to O'Shaughnessy's, wearing, as he 
 went, such an insufferably swaggering air that it 
 was a foregone conclusion he would not be in the 
 genial atmosphere of O'Shaughnessy's longer 
 than five minutes before some one essayed to 
 take the swagger out of him. 
 
 Some one did ; they all did ! They scoffed 
 at his "contrack"; they suggested that the 
 inspector was a "fly cop" and it was a warrant 
 for his own arrest that Pa had signed ; they 
 hinted that, failing the warrant, it was "some 
 kind o' bunk"; they intimated that if any one 
 present had a gold brick, Pa would be a likely 
 purchaser; they asked him if he had ever seen 
 the explosion on the lake front and if he'd heard 
 the Masonic Temple was for sale. 
 
 At first, Pa tried to joke with them, to twit 
 
236 JUST FOLKS 
 
 them as being jealous, and the like. But in a 
 little while he grew as angry as they desired and 
 drank as much as O'Shaughnessy considered his 
 credit was "good for." 
 
 Then he went home, where the children were 
 all asleep and Mary was still bending over the 
 wash-tub, and gave Mrs. Riordan (through the 
 ceiling, which also was her kitchen floor) a de- 
 tailed recital of his wrongs. 
 
 In the morning, when the inspector came, 
 Pa refused to go. The inspector appealed to 
 Mr. Casey. Would he go back on his word ? 
 Would he leave the railroad in the lurch ? Had 
 he no sense of the responsibility of that bridge, 
 over which so many persons would be carried 
 that the safety of its stone piers was of the very 
 gravest importance to thousands of human 
 lives ? Pa considered none of these things. 
 Then the inspector was sorry, but firm. Mr. 
 Casey had signed a contract ; the law would 
 expect him to fulfil it. And the inspector opened 
 his coat and displayed an authoritative star. 
 
 Pa went. Mrs. Riordan was hanging over 
 her porch rail and saw them go. 
 
 "Is yer man pinched, too ?" she asked Mary. 
 
 "Why, no!" said Mary, "is yours? Whin 
 was he took ? " 
 
 The job at Monovia proved genuine enough, 
 as Pa discovered on arriving there. The town 
 
JUST FOLKS 237 
 
 was a miserable little "dump" which existed 
 only because of the great mine of bituminous 
 coal that was practically its sole industry and 
 excuse for being. There were miners' cottages — 
 some squalid, and some as neat and nearly 
 attractive as the bleak and black surroundings 
 would allow ; and a proportion of saloons which 
 astonished even Pa ; these, with a couple of 
 "general" stores, comprised Monovia. The 
 workmen on the C. and C. bridge, just beyond 
 the tiny town, were quartered in a construction 
 train of freight-cars. Skilled workmen, who 
 could earn four dollars a day, did not relish this ; 
 it incensed them to be put, apparently, on a level 
 with the "dagoes" who shovelled dirt. Hence 
 the ease with which the factory inspector got 
 the job for Pa. 
 
 The contractor's foreman at the bridge had 
 no particular sense of humor, but he had a great 
 desire to get his stone piers in. So, when the 
 "contrack" was passed on to him, with explana- 
 tions, he welcomed it as a possible way of 
 keeping one stone-cutter with him. 
 
 Accordingly, when Pa "threw a bluff" and 
 declared he was going to leave, the foreman pro- 
 duced that formidable-looking document with 
 all its red and gold seals, and laid down to Pa the 
 "law" about violation of contract. A fellow- 
 workman to whom Pa confided his dilemma, 
 was very sceptical, and advised Pa to consult a 
 
 m 
 
2 3 8 JUST FOLKS 
 
 lawyer. But Pa had no sense of lawyers as 
 persons who might get one out of trouble — 
 only as persons who were zealous to get one deeper 
 in ; and besides, there was no lawyer at Monovia. 
 So Pa stayed. 
 
 He wrote home, sometimes, and every now 
 and then he sent some money. There was noth- 
 ing regular about his remittances and they had 
 but a meagre ratio to his earnings. But Mary 
 was not used to regularity, nor to sufficiency. 
 And she was looking forward hopefully to the 
 time when Mikey "would be let out," and to 
 the home-coming of Angela Ann. 
 
 Her unfaltering faith in the latter event was 
 wonderful. It was the dream of her life, now, 
 to have the "parlie" ready when Angela Ann 
 came back. 
 
 "It have always been my belafe," she told 
 Beth, "that if we'd had a parlie the poor little 
 t'ing wouldn't niver 'a' wint away. Ag'in she 
 come home, I'm goin' t' kape the parlie nice far 
 'er an' not l'ave the kids muss it up. An' I 
 ain' goin' t' l'ave 'er go down town t' work no 
 more — theer's too manny bad min. She kin 
 stay home an' mind th' house, an' I'll git scrub- 
 bin' t' do. Wid what her pa sind, now an' thin, 
 an' what I earn, an' what Mikey make ag'in he 
 git out, an' Johnny goin' t' work before so very 
 long, we kin mebbe give her a dollar a wake fer 
 'er clo'es an' spindin' money. An' Kate an' 
 
JUST FOLKS 239 
 
 Pete's goin' t' take her t' th' theaytre rale fray- 
 quint — an' Maggie an' Tim'll do what they 
 kin fer 'er — an' by 'n 'by whin she git cheered 
 up good, an' some nice young felly that mane 
 right by 'er come around, I'm goin' t' l'ave 'er 
 'ave 'im in th' parlie ivry night, an' no wan t' 
 bother thim." 
 
 Beth could hardly keep her tears back when 
 she thought how little likely all this was to 
 come to pass. But she never let breath of her 
 unbelief dull Mary's hopes. And between them, 
 she and Eleanor begged quite a collection of 
 finery for the parlie. Then, one night after the 
 other children were abed, Mary and Johnny 
 washed the dirty blue kalsomine off the walls ; 
 and another night they had much amusement 
 putting on a new coat which the man in the 
 paint store "on Blue Islan'" had mixed for them. 
 He lent them a brush, for a nickel extra ; and if, 
 when the brush came back again, he regretted 
 his bargain, he didn't say so. The pathos of 
 the parlie must have got into his heart, too. 
 
 The color of the new kalsomine was green. A 
 newspaper story of Hart Ferris's brought several 
 offers of discarded bookcases, one of which was 
 accepted for the Cyclopaedia. The same source 
 yielded a stuffed sofa and two or three chairs — 
 one a patent rocker. Eleanor begged a lamp 
 and some curtains. Beth manoeuvred the ac- 
 quisition of a carpet-rug, not new, but amply 
 
240 JUST FOLKS 
 
 satisfying. Mary made one purchase. A 
 second-hand store on Halsted Street displayed 
 a gorgeous gilt and plush frame with an "air 
 brush" enlargement of some lady of the Nine- 
 teenth Ward — or elsewhere — who was de- 
 ceased, or supplanted and forgotten. 
 
 Beth was a bit staggered when she saw this. 
 "Who is the lady, Mary ?" she asked. 
 
 "Sure, I dunno," said Mary. "But she's a 
 nice-lookin' lady, an' I got it chape, an' I t'ought 
 it'd look rale drissy fer a parlie — seein' we've 
 no enlargemints of our own." 
 
 Beth gasped. Then she recollected how ex- 
 actly similar were her reasons for owning as 
 her sole art treasures a carbon photograph of 
 Mona Lisa and a little plaster cast of Venus of 
 Melos. 
 
 Thus the parlie progressed, to the envy of 
 Mrs. Riordan and the Rubovitzes, and the great 
 consolation of Mary. 
 
 One night toward the end of March, Johnny 
 came in with a "Last and Sporting Extra" of a 
 penny paper committed to the belief in lurid 
 text and large headlines. It was the baseball 
 scores and the "gossip of the ringside," along 
 with the minor delight of the comic pictures, 
 that made this sheet dear to Johnny, and he sat 
 poring over these while he ate his supper. 
 
 On the front sheet of that part of the paper 
 for which Johnny, save in a bored emergency, 
 
JUST FOLKS 241 
 
 had no use, particularly large headlines in black 
 and in red stared at Mary as she laid down his 
 plate. 
 
 "What do thim large letters say?" she in- 
 quired, pointing to them. Experience had taught 
 her that they usually bespoke a sensation out of 
 the ordinary. 
 
 With a " What's-the-use ?" expression, Johnny 
 laid down his vital statistics and cast an 
 "easy-reading eye" on the headlines. "It 
 say: 'Awful Mine Horror. Four Hundred 
 Miners En — En— '" 
 
 "In what?" 
 
 "In nothin' — I can't make it out — en — " 
 
 Mary looked at her son. "Johnny Casey, 
 d'ye mane t' till me that you can't rade printin' 
 the size o' that — an' you been to school these 
 siven er eight years ?" 
 
 "Aw," said Johnny, " I kin rade the letters, 
 a' right, but I don't know what they mane. 
 E— N— T— O— M— B— E— D." 
 
 "Well, no more do I. What do it say nixt ?" 
 
 " — in a burnin' mine. Four hundred miners 
 somethin' in a burnin' mine." 
 
 " Fer th' love o' God ! Wheer ? " 
 
 Johnny looked. "Why, at that place wheer 
 Pa be," he said, and went on to read out, rather 
 laboriously, the first, generally descriptive lines 
 about the catastrophe. 
 
 Mary's face blanched with horror as he read 
 
242 JUST FOLKS 
 
 of the miners trapped in the crypt-like chambers 
 and passageways of the blazing mine; of the 
 frantic women and children gathered at the 
 mine's mouth ; and of the deadly gases that 
 drove back daring rescuers. 
 
 "Think o' that, now!" she said, "an' thank 
 God yer pa work wid th' blissid sky above 
 'im!" 
 
 Dewey came in from his play in the street, 
 for a moment, and stood listening. Little Annie, 
 conscious of something unusual, clutched at her 
 mother's skirts. 
 
 Johnny, loving the intentness of his audience, 
 read on ; read how, in the face of almost certain 
 death, a few rescuers had finally gone down into 
 the mine; how, before going, they had written 
 brief notes of farewell and left them to be de- 
 livered if the rescuers perished with them they 
 sought to save. 
 
 At this point, Mary cried out inarticulately, 
 but in unmistakable anguish. Johnny stopped 
 reading and looked at her inquiringly. 
 
 "If — if yer pa was wan o' thim," she said. 
 
 Johnny turned again to his paper. "Aw," 
 he answered, in a manner meant to be re- 
 assuring, "Pa wouldn' go down in no burnin' 
 
 mine." 
 
 "Hold yer tongue agin yer pa !" his mother 
 ordered him, grasping him by the shoulders and 
 shaking him resentfully. "Theer's manny that 
 
JUST FOLKS 243 
 
 ain't got the courage t' live as they ought, 
 that's got the courage t' die brave an' splindid. 
 Look sharp, now, an' see if it don't till who those 
 min were." 
 
 Johnny looked, but nowhere was the name 
 Casey to be seen. In fact, few names of any 
 kind appeared in the account, which was rushed 
 on to the wires too soon after the breaking out 
 of the fire to make any details possible. 
 
 But Mary was not consoled. "I've a feelin'," 
 she insisted, "that he's wan o' thim. Iver since 
 I know yer pa I've ixpicted 'im t' do somethin' 
 like it. Fer ivry girl do drame of a hero, an' 
 ivry bride do t'ink she's gittin' wan. An' whin 
 the years wint by, an' yer pa didn' give no life- 
 like riprisintation of a hero, I niver los' faith in 
 'im altogither. 'He'll do it yit,' I'd always say 
 t' mesilf. 'Some heroes makes theer chances, 
 an' some has t' wait till theer chance come. 
 He's evidently wan o' thim that have t' wait. 
 Don't you niver give 'im up fer good,' I'd till 
 mesilf, 'until you know he's had his chance an' 
 hasn' took it.' If he was workin' theer, close by 
 that mine wheer thim poor min was shut in an' 
 burnin' t' death, he's gon' down t' bring thim 
 up — you mark me words ! God know the fear 
 that's in me heart this minute ! But God know, 
 too, the worse than fear that would be theer if 
 I had t' belave me Patsy'd had his chance an 
 hadn' took it!" 
 
244 JUST FOLKS 
 
 That was a night of vigil in the Casey home. 
 The children slept, as children can; but Mary 
 sat in her black kitchen the long night through 
 — fearful, triumphant ; thinking, thinking. 
 
 When her window-pane paled to gray, she 
 opened the back door softly, and stole out to 
 the corner to look for a paper. But it was too 
 early for newsboys or for those little shops which 
 sold papers on Blue Island Avenue. So Mary 
 went back and waited. If there was one thing 
 life had taught her even more perfectly than 
 many others, it was to wait. At six o'clock 
 she went to the corner again and found a 
 boy. 
 
 Back in her kitchen she spread the paper out 
 and looked at the pictures which were self- 
 evidently about that part of it wherein her in- 
 terest centred. Then, unable to wait longer, 
 she woke Johnny and brought him, rubbing his 
 eyes sleepily, out to the kitchen to tell her 
 what it said. 
 
 Johnny doused his face with cold water at 
 the sink, and that helped a little. But when he 
 turned to the paper he was dismayed. "Theer's 
 pages an' pages about it," he said. 
 
 "I'd like t' hear it all," his mother replied 
 wistfully, a but can't ye fin' that place first 
 wheer it till about thim riscuers ?" 
 
 Johnny didn't know if he could, but he'd try. 
 He bent over the outspread sheets and scanned 
 
JUST FOLKS 245 
 
 the columns anxiously. Mary's patient inten- 
 sity was pitiful to see. 
 
 Finally, "Here it is," he said. Mary's heart 
 seemed to stop beating. "'No word of the 
 brave rescuers who went down into the burning 
 mine has come to the surface since they made 
 their daring descent, and it is feared all have 
 perished.'" Mary moaned. "'As nearly all the 
 able-bodied men in town were in the mine at 
 the time of the accident, the rescuers were re- 
 cruited mainly from the workmen engaged in 
 building the new C. and C. bridge over the Sand- 
 stone River at Monovia.'" 
 
 "What'dltillye?" she cried. 
 
 "'Among these,'" read Johnny, and spelled 
 out several names ; then, with a queer little cry 
 that was half pride and half despair, he pointed 
 with his forefinger to the place, as if thus to 
 verify what he read: '"Patrick Casey, of Chi- 
 cago — 21 Henry Street — who was employed 
 as a stone-cutter on the C. and C. bridge.'" 
 
 He looked up at his mother. The other 
 children had been wakened, had got out of bed, 
 and were standing about her, looking at her too. 
 They had seen their mother meet many an 
 emergency, but they had never seen her look 
 like this. Her stooping figure seemed straight- 
 ened ; there was a flush in her thin, sallow 
 cheeks ; tears were dropping from her eyes, but 
 underneath the tears her eyes flashed. She 
 
246 JUST FOLKS 
 
 reached down and snatched up Annie and 
 strained the child to her bosom with a splendid 
 passion of maternity. 
 
 "Childern," she said, and her voice broke in 
 sobs that had, somehow, a note of triumph in 
 them, " down on yer knees, an' ivry wan av us'll 
 pray th' Blissid Vargin t' presarve yer father — 
 that's a — hero." 
 
 Before breakfast was well over, all that part 
 of Henry Street which can read newspapers, 
 and all that part which can understand if it 
 cannot read English, knew about Pa Casey; 
 and a steady stream of curious and sympathiz- 
 ing callers flowed along the narrow passageway 
 between the Caseys' tenement and the one next 
 door. Most of them were dumfounded at what 
 they saw. Mary's spirit had communicated 
 itself to her children, and there was none of 
 that loud lamentation which Henry Street had 
 expected, and hoped, to see and hear. It was 
 an awed and quiet household. Tears welled 
 frequently in every eye — especially when neigh- 
 bors who were bent on excitement and disap- 
 pointed at finding none sought to create it by 
 dwelling on what must be the horrors of that 
 death in a pit of flames, which was Pa's death 
 — but, following Mary's example, even the 
 children wiped them silently away. 
 
 "She took it awful calm," criticised one neigh- 
 bor, coming away. "I don' b'leeve she care much." 
 
JUST FOLKS 247 
 
 "Well," reminded another, a trifle more in- 
 clined to charity, "he was small good t' her er 
 anny wan. Maybe 'tis kind of a relafe he's 
 gon\" 
 
 Nobody seemed to understand — Mary's own 
 kin as little as the rest — but the sympathy 
 that helped most, next to Beth's, came from 
 some of the Russian Jew women who had them- 
 selves known the horror of an awful death for 
 those they loved, in Kishinev and Kief. 
 
 Mary's sister Maggie and her husband, Tim 
 Kavanagh, were early on the scene, trying to 
 make Mary see how she wouldn't be much worse 
 off, "whin Mikey git out ; an' now that Johnny'll 
 soon be able t' git a stiddy job." 
 
 Once, something blazed in Mary's eyes for a 
 moment ; she was almost on the point of trying 
 to tell these Kavanaghs. But the hopelessness 
 of making them understand, caused her to hold 
 her tongue. 
 
 It was when the reporters began coming that 
 Mary gave the shock of their lives to the Kava- 
 naghs. "The account o' Pat Casey she gave 
 to those min, was somethin' ye wouldn' belave" 
 as Tim Kavanagh said, in telling about it after- 
 wards, to Pete Foley. 
 
 Hart Ferris explained to her how, if her hus- 
 band's body was recovered, it might not be 
 known for his unless she could help to identify 
 it. He said he would send word to her, as soon 
 
248 JUST FOLKS 
 
 as it came into the newspaper offices, when any- 
 bodies were recovered, but that probably she 
 could never get her husband's remains unless 
 she could pick them out from among the heaps 
 of unidentified dead. 
 
 "Sure, I could niver git to — that place, 
 wheeriver it is," she said. 
 
 "We'll fix that !" he told her. And "fix it" 
 he did. The evening's paper contained descrip- 
 tions of the Casey home that set Henry Street 
 agog with interest — some proud, some full of 
 contemptuous dissent — and subscriptions to 
 help send Mary Casey to Monovia poured in 
 generously. Yes, and many callers came — 
 some, as Johnny said, "jest t' rubber" and a 
 few to offer assistance. 
 
 There was one subject Mary was careful not 
 to mention to any reporter — and that was 
 Mikey in the reform school. "'Tis few, ye 
 might say, that know 'bout it," she explained 
 to Beth, "an' the fewer the better for Mikey 
 whin 'tis all past an' behint him." But she 
 stole away to the School (which was less than 
 two miles away), and on telling her story to the 
 sympathetic warden, got permission to see 
 Mikey — not in the wire cage where visiting 
 was usually permitted, but in the warden's 
 private office. 
 
 "Ye've t'ought hard o' yer pa, manny times, 
 Mikey bye," she said; "an' often I couldn' 
 
JUST FOLKS 249 
 
 r'ally blame ye. But ye kin hoi' up yer hid 
 about 'im, now ! He've done gran' by ye at 
 last, Mikey ! He've lift ye a name ye kin be 
 proud of !" 
 
 It was days before the flames in that vast 
 pit of death were subdued ; days before word 
 came to Mary Casey that bodies were being 
 brought up, and that she would best hasten 
 to Monovia to see if she could identify her 
 husband. 
 
 Tim Kavanagh thought he should go — "bein' 
 the man o' the fam'ly." But he shrank from 
 before the furious refusal in Mary's eyes and 
 in her scant figure with its new erectness and 
 command. u Fm the man o' this fam'ly, now," 
 she said. And Tim withdrew. 
 
 In one of his pockets, Pa Casey always carried 
 a bit of Colorado goldstone, picked up on some 
 of his vagrant wanderings. It was a topic for 
 frequent conversation, because when things 
 "wint bad," Pa would descant on what things 
 might be if he could only get back to the 
 country " wheer a man can pick up the like o' 
 this off the ground." Sometimes he encountered 
 a scoffer, who tried to explain that the shining 
 particles were not gold ; but Pa never believed 
 him — his faith in his El Dorado remained 
 unshaken to the end. It was by the bit of 
 goldstone that Mary identified him ; not even 
 
2SO JUST FOLKS 
 
 the fires of that Inferno had destroyed its 
 shining. 
 
 When they gave Mary the letter he had left 
 for her — the hastily-scrawled note of farewell 
 written at the mouth of the burning mine — she 
 admitted to no one that she could not read it, 
 but carried it in her bosom until she got home. 
 
 There, standing beside his father's coffin as 
 she directed him, Mikey, who had been allowed 
 to go to his father's funeral, broke the seal of the 
 dirty envelope and read. The start for the 
 church would be made presently; this was 
 their last time together as a family. All the 
 mourning for Patsy which had grown rusty, was 
 re-dipped ; and in the pitiful little parlie there 
 seemed only black and white ; black shadows 
 (for it was a drear, rainy day), and black clothes, 
 and black casket ; and white faces, and white 
 candles, and white flowers. 
 
 With choking voice, Mikey began to read : — 
 
 " 'Dear Mamie' " — it was the name he had 
 called her by in their courting days, before she 
 became just "yer ma" — "'Dear Mamie an' 
 the Kids. If this ever gits to you I guess you'll 
 know why I rote it. The wives an kids of them 
 fellows down there is standin at the mouth If it 
 was youse I hope some one would go down fer 
 me. Goodby. If I come up alive I'm goin to do 
 better by you. Love to all. 
 
 "'Patsy.'" 
 
JUST FOLKS 251 
 
 When he finished, they were all sobbing. 
 Mary reached for the letter and returned it to 
 her bosom. 
 
 "Thank God fer yer chance, Patsy bye!" 
 she said, her face uplifted and her eyes shining. 
 
XIII 
 
 While the Caseys were burying Pa, the Slin- 
 skys were made distraught by the serious illness 
 of Jacob. "Pneumonia," the doctor said, and 
 advised the hospital. 
 
 Mrs. Slinsky, when the hospital was men- 
 tioned, fell heavily into a kitchen chair, lifted 
 her apron to her face, and began to weep violently. 
 Her mother, acute terror writ in every feature, 
 tugged at the weeping woman's sleeve, begging, 
 in Yiddish, to be told what was going to happen ; 
 when Dinah explained to her, the grandmother 
 beat her withered breasts, then covered with her 
 shawl her be-wigged head and gave way to woe 
 unspeakable. 
 
 Dinah motioned the doctor out into the hall. 
 "They do not understand," she explained, "they 
 fear the hospital as the place where people go 
 only to die. I will try to explain." 
 
 "You must do it quickly, then. Every hour 
 counts, in pneumonia. And your father is a 
 delicate man — if the pneumonia does not carry 
 him off now, it may easily turn to consumption 
 and put him to a lingering death. He must have 
 nursing ; he must have many things that he can- 
 
 252 
 
JUST FOLKS 253 
 
 not have here. You understand ; you explain it 
 to them." 
 
 When he was gone, Dinah knocked at Liza 
 Allen's door and asked to speak to Beth who, 
 fortunately, was in. Dinah told their trouble 
 and asked if Beth thought it would be im- 
 posing on Mrs. Brent's goodness to telephone 
 her and ask her to come over. 
 
 "Not at all," said Beth, "I'm sure she would 
 want to know. I'll go up to the drug store and 
 'phone her." 
 
 In an hour Eleanor Brent was there, pleading 
 with Mrs. Slinsky about the hospital, trying to 
 describe its advantages, its beneficence, to tell 
 her how persons of the very greatest wealth 
 gladly went from their splendid homes to the 
 hospitals and paid big sums to get nursing no 
 better than Jacob Slinsky might have for no 
 charge at all. 
 
 "I think I can get him into the Presbyterian 
 Hospital," Eleanor said. "They are very 
 crowded, but I'll try — if you'll let me. He'll 
 almost certainly die, here. In pneumonia it is 
 so hard to breathe — as you hear ! He must 
 have lots of pure air, and your bedroom is so 
 small and close — not much air comes in. If 
 you keep him here, and he dies, think how you 
 will always reproach yourself ! But if you give 
 him his chance to live — " 
 
 Thus entreated, Mrs. Slinsky at length con- 
 
254 JUST FOLKS 
 
 sented, and Eleanor went away to make arrange- 
 ments. 
 
 The arrival of the ambulance created intense 
 excitement in Maxwell Street, and before the 
 attendants had reached the top of the stairs with 
 the stretcher on which Jacob was to be taken 
 away, the doorway and the sidewalk were 
 thronged, and curious heads hung out of every 
 window that permitted a view. 
 
 Patient, gentle, resigned, Jacob was an entirely 
 passive factor in the scene. Sarah wept hysteri- 
 cally. Abe strove manfully to be brave and to 
 comfort his mother. Dinah showed a beautiful 
 heroism. But the little grandmother, at sight 
 of her beloved son-in-law being carried away 
 by strange, uniformed men, uttered one scream 
 of heart-broken protest and fell to the floor. 
 
 Picking her up and carrying her into the room 
 where she slept with the two girls, created a 
 distraction which eased the terrible tension of 
 those moments when the stretcher-bearers were 
 slowly making their way with their burden 
 down the steep, dark stairs and out through the 
 close-pressing crowds about the door. But long 
 after the ambulance had driven away, the 
 distressing moans, the guttural, unintelligible 
 sounds, issued from that little room where 
 Mrs. Slinsky and her mother were. 
 
 "Can't you comfort your grandmother?" 
 Eleanor entreated of Dinah. 
 
JUST FOLKS 255 
 
 "I will try again," said Dinah, bravely, "but 
 it is hard. In Poland she suffered so much, she 
 cannot understand how it is different here, nor 
 why men come to take my dear father away." 
 
 When Jacob had been gone for time long 
 enough to see him settled at the hospital, 
 Eleanor ventured on something which might, 
 she hoped, lessen the reign of terror in the 
 Slinsky home : she took Mrs. Slinsky over to 
 the hospital, made a specially strong plea to the 
 Superintendent, and got permission for Jacob's 
 wife to see him for a moment and so feel assured 
 that he was being well cared for. 
 
 Up in the elevator, and along the wide corridors 
 with the shining oaken floors, they went. It 
 was a bright, warm, gloriously sunny day — 
 one of those wherewith March often tricks 
 Chicago into believing spring has come, only 
 to undeceive her later with long weeks of belated 
 blustering. Eleanor had pointed out to Mrs. 
 Slinsky as they came, how fortunate they were 
 to have such a day for Jacob's removal. She 
 felt doubly grateful that on a day like this Mrs. 
 Slinsky was come to get her first impressions of 
 a hospital. Floods of sunshine were everywhere, 
 and accentuated the shining cleanliness, the 
 large, comfortable rooms, the airiness and the 
 quiet. Mrs. Slinsky was impressed by the evi- 
 dent willingness of such patients as she saw — 
 
256 JUST FOLKS 
 
 convalescents, mostly — to be there; by the 
 competent look of the nurses ; and by the 
 unmistakably happy relations between the sick 
 and those who cared for them. Eleanor's in- 
 fluence with the hospital authorities was suffi- 
 ciently strong to get her permission to take Mrs. 
 Slinsky to the children's ward, where she saw 
 the little things for whom so much had been 
 done. This ward always abounds in stories of 
 child patients who were loath to go home; 
 and Mrs. Slinsky could almost understand why, 
 when she saw how happy they were there. 
 
 Then they went to see Jacob. Fortified by all 
 these comforting impressions, his wife was able 
 to speak a reassuring word to him and to come 
 away herself reassured. 
 
 When they got back to Maxwell Street and had 
 climbed the dark stairs to the Slinskys' rooms, 
 Eleanor hoped Mrs. Slinsky was struck, as 
 she was, by the tremendous contrast between 
 them and those big, airy, sun-flooded rooms to 
 which Jacob had been removed for his life's 
 saving. Not a window in this place had been 
 opened for months, probably ; and if any of the 
 rays of March sunshine had struggled down over 
 the roof of the next building on the west, and 
 into the tiny court, and come a-seeking, merci- 
 fully, at the one window in the Slinskys' kitchen, 
 they could not — it seemed — have forced their 
 beneficent way through the grime with which 
 
JUST FOLKS 257 
 
 that window was "opaqued." Eleanor longed 
 to speak of air, but dared not. She wondered 
 how Dinah stood the daily change from the big, 
 gray building on the Lake Front, with its galleries 
 of lovely things and its air of order and rest- 
 fulness, to this clutter and dirt and unloveli- 
 ness. For the grandmother and for the mother, 
 it was all right, perhaps ; they knew no better, 
 nor cared to know. But Dinah, with her love 
 of beauty ! Eleanor shuddered to think of the 
 girl's daily home-comings, and of her long even- 
 ings spent here, trying to sketch the old, be- 
 wigged grandmother, and the mother, moving 
 heavily about and "spilling tears." 
 
 Dinah had done what she could, while her 
 mother and Eleanor were gone, to put the place 
 to rights. It had been a relief to gather up the 
 unwashed dishes, to pick up the aprons and 
 other clothing dropped in the abandonment 
 of woe and left to lie where they fell. 
 
 She had even succeeded in quieting the old 
 grandmother; but on Mrs. Slinsky's return, 
 her mother's lamentations broke out afresh and 
 were silenced only by a long account, in Yiddish, 
 of the pleasant place their dear Jacob was in ; 
 even after all was told, though, the old woman 
 shook ominously her black-wigged head. 
 
 " She can't believe," said Mrs. Slinsky ; " always 
 she is remembering Poland and our sufferings." 
 
 "You suffered much, there ?" Eleanor asked. 
 
258 JUST FOLKS 
 
 "Oh, yes — much ! To learn to read, it was 
 forbidden. To go out of our village was not 
 allowed. Should a girl come out of her village 
 for any reason, and go back, she's branded 
 as — as one that has no shame. In nothing 
 is freedom — in everything is oppression. And 
 'the Little Father' some do call the Tsar!" 
 
 "Perhaps he doesn't know — he sits so high 
 up in his great palaces he cannot realize," sug- 
 gested Eleanor. 
 
 She was startled by the vehemence of the 
 flaccid woman before her. "But he should 
 know !" Mrs. Slinsky cried. "That is what his 
 business is — he should know ! In my country is 
 legend of a king. He was very great, rich king 
 and his people was very poor and suffered much, 
 so that after while his heart was touched, and 
 he had wish to help. But what to do he could 
 not tell — he knows so little what poor peoples 
 need. So he thinks very hard. Most of his 
 men what he has to help him, think poor people 
 should be poor — that is all they are worthy 
 of ; and nobody knows how to tell that king 
 what he shall do. But he has one chief man 
 he loves ; that man is good man at heart. So 
 the king send rough soldiers, one night, and take 
 that good man and drag him from his family 
 and send him into exile. And the soldiers tell 
 that man the king has take all his possessions 
 away — everything ; and that he will not see 
 
JUST FOLKS 259 
 
 his wife or children or his old father and mother, 
 any more. And they take that good man and 
 cast him on little island where is nobody, and 
 where he cannot come away, and where he 
 must get with his own hands fire to keep from 
 freezing and food to keep from starving. And 
 the king leaves him so, for three years, to 
 wonder why he is treated this way. Then the 
 king sends for him and gives him back all that 
 he had, and says : 'Now you shall help me to do 
 good. You know how it is to suffer like poor 
 peoples suffer.' And that good man could 
 help the king, and it was wonderful time in 
 Poland for poor peoples. If the Tsar wanted, 
 he could help. Maybe he couldn't go himself to 
 learn ; but he could send." 
 
 "And that king, too, sent his best," Eleanor 
 murmured, deeply moved. 
 
 Dinah followed her into the dark hall, when 
 she came away, and closing the kitchen door 
 behind them, said: "Perhaps you have not 
 thought, my dear, dear friend, but with my 
 father's illness, our — our living stops. There 
 is only one thing to do ; I must get work. 
 Abe finishes High School this year — he must 
 not stop now. I cannot earn much, perhaps, 
 but I can do something so we can live; and 
 my .mother will sew a little. If you should 
 hear of anything that I can do — or if Miss 
 Tully should— " 
 
26o JUST FOLKS 
 
 "I'll try — I'll ask her, too, Dinah, dear," 
 Eleanor assured her; and bent, in the black 
 hall, to kiss Dinah's sweet, patient face — glad 
 of the darkness in which Dinah could not see her 
 tears. 
 
 "I'll see now if Miss Tully's home," she 
 said ; and knocked on Liza's door as Dinah 
 re-opened hers. 
 
 Beth was not there just then, but Liza expected 
 her at any minute and she urged Mrs. Brent to 
 wait. Sunshine was pouring in the two south 
 windows of Liza's front room, and the atmos- 
 phere — if not quite like that of Eleanor's 
 home — was very bearable and a most grateful 
 change from that of the Slinskys' kitchen. 
 
 Adam was at home — he was usually at home 
 — snugly ensconced beside the kitchen stove; 
 and he and Liza abundantly entertained Eleanor 
 while Beth tarried. 
 
 Finally, when she could wait no longer, Elea- 
 nor left with Liza her message for Beth about 
 Dinah, and went on her way to see what she 
 herself could do. 
 
 The mystery of Eleanor's "man" and why 
 he had been such a tragic disappointment, gave 
 Liza and Adam great concern. 
 
 "Don't seem like she could have give him 
 much of a trial," said Liza, that evening after 
 Beth had returned and been given an account 
 
JUST FOLKS 261 
 
 of Eleanor's visit, "fer, land sakes ! she ain't 
 nothin' but a child, yet ! " 
 
 "It doesn't take a lifetime to find out some 
 mistakes," suggested Beth. "I guess when a 
 girl like Eleanor builds a lovely dream about 
 some one, and it is shattered — " 
 
 "Oh, shucks!" declared Liza, "life ain't 
 no dream. What's all her eddication fer, an' 
 her furrin travel, an' all that, if it don't teach 
 her what I learned 'thout ever comin' out o' 
 Steuben ville : that gittin' married's a serious 
 business. Men wa'n't made t' dream about; 
 they was made t' develop woman's Christian 
 characters." 
 
 Adam received this thrust, which he knew was 
 intended for him, with beautiful complacency; 
 there was no role he liked so well as that of the 
 "gay Ontario." 
 
 "Then I s'pose," he ventured, after due time 
 to think out his retort, "that them women 
 that marries awful late in life, has got dreadful 
 backward Christian characters." 
 
 Liza bristled, even beyond his hopes. "Don't 
 you ever believe it!" she cried. "There's 
 more ways, an' better ones, of findin' out what 
 men is, than bein' tied to one poor specimen — 
 on'y some women never finds 'em." 
 
 "Not if they kin find the specimen," Adam 
 chuckled. 
 
 At this point, Beth thought it wise to inter- 
 
262 JUST FOLKS 
 
 vene. "I can't see," she said musingly, "how 
 there could be any kind of man who could live 
 with a girl like Eleanor Brent and not be up- 
 lifted by her." 
 
 "That's just it, I bet ye!" Adam opined. 
 "She's prob'ly too durned upliftin' fer any 
 mortal use. I know them women !" 
 
 "You !" Liza snorted unbelievingly. 
 
 "Yes, me! There's more ways, an' better 
 ones, of findin' out what women is, than bein' 
 tied to one poor specimen." 
 
 Thus the speculations raged, beginning with 
 Eleanor, but always intensely personal in their 
 final results — just as least and greatest of us 
 philosophizes upon the world at large with spe- 
 cial reference to the world within ourselves. 
 
 Beth was only amused at the conjectures of 
 Adam, and even of Liza. But she was a little 
 nettled to find that Hart Ferris inclined to take a 
 somewhat similar view of Eleanor's probable case. 
 
 "I don't know where 'the shine' of her life, 
 as you call it, went to," he ventured to say, 
 "but I'd like to bet that it's lurking somewhere 
 where she could whistle it back if she would — 
 and she wonH." 
 
 "Why, Hart Ferris!" 
 
 "Well, I don't mean to be ungallant, Beth 
 dear, but them's my honest sentiments. I 
 haven't seen much of the kind of lovely lady that's 
 too good for this naughty world — my lines 
 
JUST FOLKS 263 
 
 haven't fallen in the places she frequents — but 
 I've heard about her, and read about her. And 
 I know she collects a lot of sympathy in excess 
 of what she deserves. Mary Casey stacks up 
 much, much bigger with me. Do you remember 
 what she said when you told her about Adam and 
 Liza ? ' I belave 'tis in the nature of ivry woman 
 t' want a man t' try her hand on. All of us be- 
 laves oursilves born min-tamers, an' none of us 
 iver loses the notion — though some kapes tryin' 
 diffrunt min, lookin' fer success wid wan out 
 o' the lot, an' some kapes tryin' the same man 
 over an over, same as me.' I'm old-fashioned, 
 maybe, but the longer I live and the more I 
 see of the world, the bigger she looks to me — 
 that woman who 'kapes tryin' 3 her one man, 
 over and over, same as Mary Casey." 
 
 Beth made no reply. She pretended to her- 
 self that it was because of the uselessness of 
 argument. But really it was because she had 
 nothing to say. 
 
 It was not easy, finding work for Dinah ; but 
 Eleanor had not expected that it would be, and 
 she was not daunted by the difficulty. By dint 
 of great diplomacy, she managed to get Dinah 
 to accept from her a small loan which she was 
 to pay back in small weekly instalments out of 
 her wages when she got work; and this pro- 
 vided for the family's immediate necessities. 
 
264 JUST FOLKS 
 
 It might have been a little easier to get some 
 simple manual thing for Dinah to do at home 
 
 — she did, indeed, help her mother with the 
 "finishing" Mrs. Slinsky did for sweatshops — 
 but Eleanor was intensely anxious to see if 
 something could not be found for Dinah that 
 would enable her to earn, and still not slam too 
 rudely in her face all those doors to long vistas 
 of beauty, through which she had peered so 
 wistfully these last months. 
 
 At length the way opened, quite wonderfully, 
 it seemed. A friend of Eleanor's who did most 
 exquisite bookbinding and other art work in 
 leathers, offered to take Dinah as an apprentice ; 
 to teach her design, the use of color, and other 
 excellent things which, mastered, command a 
 good recompense and give an artist-craftsman's 
 joy. Dinah was to stay in the studio and, in 
 the absence of the artist, to answer the tele- 
 phone, receive parcels, and otherwise provide 
 against the possible loss of being called upon 
 and found not at home. Also, she was to do 
 anything helpful that she could do about the 
 studio at any time. And the artist, who could 
 easily have got without pay an apprentice from 
 among the hundreds of well-to-do girls who as- 
 pired to learn her art, was willing to disregard 
 that fact and pay Dinah a small weekly wage 
 
 — more than she could possibly have earned at 
 any of the employments for which she was now 
 
JUST FOLKS 265 
 
 fitted. This was a principle, with Dinah's new 
 friend. She believed in gleanings, not in dole; 
 in leaving some of her harvest to be gathered, 
 self-respectingly, by the needy, rather than in 
 reaping it all herself and handing back a tithe 
 of it in demeaning charity. Dinah was exceed- 
 ingly fortunate to enlist the interest of this 
 splendid woman. She did not know, of course, 
 about the "gleanings" — was not aware that 
 the offer of wages was unusual — but she did 
 know that the opportunity was a fine one, and 
 she was intensely grateful. In the studio she 
 would encounter many charming and clever 
 people, would hear such talk as delighted her, 
 and be in a way, almost as much as in the 
 Art Institute, to realize many of her fondest 
 dreams. 
 
 "You have no idea," she said lovingly to 
 Eleanor, "how you have transformed my life, 
 and life for us all. There used to be nothing to 
 expect — almost nothing to hope. I was afraid 
 to look ahead, to think of the future. Now, it 
 is all so different. Every day I wake with a 
 glad feeling, for I cannot tell what sweet surprise 
 the day will bring." 
 
 But alas for the best-laid plans ! Dinah had 
 been in the studio less than a week when the 
 sword fell. On Friday afternoons, after dark, 
 her employer laid work aside and served tea to 
 her friends. She asked some help of Dinah — 
 
266 JUST FOLKS 
 
 something about lighting the charcoal fire in the 
 samovar. 
 
 Dinah's face flushed, and her eyes spoke keen 
 distress. "I — I — it is the Shabbas," she fal- 
 tered; "we are forbidden — " 
 
 " The what?" 
 
 Dinah explained. 
 
 "And to-morrow ?" 
 
 "To-morrow I must not do any work. I am 
 so sorry — I ought to have thought about it 
 before — but I forgot — I was so happy — and 
 I am used only to those who understand our 
 religion." 
 
 "I, too, am sorry, Dinah; but I think you'll 
 find that you can't get on this way. If you are 
 content to stay in the Ghetto, you may keep 
 your orthodoxy. But if you want to come out, 
 to enter the big other world, you must meet 
 it on its own terms. You — you — pardon me, 
 but you have much against you, at best. And 
 you make your way so much, much harder by 
 insisting on practices that are not sacred in the 
 world you want to enter. Now, if you feel that 
 you cannot change — " 
 
 "Oh, I couldn't," pleaded Dinah, in an awed 
 tone but with vehement conviction, "it would 
 break my parents' hearts. And we — you see 
 they try to be very, very strict about the laws, 
 because they feel that at some time they must 
 have given offence, and I — am their Judgment." 
 
JUST FOLKS 267 
 
 "I feel ashamed that I let her go," the artist 
 said afterwards to Eleanor, "but that awful in- 
 flexibility just 'got my dander up.' There's 
 no use trying ! With all the obstacles she has 
 that cannot be overcome, she will go on creating 
 others for herself with her beliefs. The kindest 
 thing I can do, I daresay, is to let her forget her 
 art dreams and work out her own salvation 
 according to her law." 
 
 Eleanor was inclined to tenderness for Dinah 
 until she encountered the rigidity of opinion in 
 the Slinsky household. "They will let her 
 sacrifice everything to their Shabbas," she com- 
 plained bitterly to Beth, "and I don't see how 
 any of us can hope to help her against such 
 fanatical unyieldingness." 
 
 Beth also tried to talk to Dinah and to the 
 Slinskys, but with only the same results. 
 
 In deep distress, Dinah went to Eleanor to 
 make plain to that dear friend how appreciative 
 she was of the happiness offered her and which 
 she felt she could not accept. And Eleanor was 
 melted by the girl's evident heroism. 
 
 "Dinah dear," she said, "I am afraid life is 
 going to be terribly hard for you. Happiness 
 does not come to us on our own terms. We have 
 to reach out after it and grasp it where it lies." 
 
 "Perhaps," Dinah ventured, "it is not in- 
 tended that we should be happy — only that we 
 should be good." 
 
268 JUST FOLKS 
 
 "That," said Eleanor, proudly, "is the differ- 
 ence between your faith and mine. I be- 
 lieve — " this was, though Eleanor was not con- 
 scious of it at the moment, the first time in her 
 life she had formulated her credo — "that Love 
 came to transform the old, hard law, and make 
 happiness not only possible, but an obligation." 
 
 When Dinah got up to go, her problem was 
 not solved, but she felt, somehow, stronger and 
 better able to meet it. "You help me so much," 
 she told Eleanor, at parting, "I wish I could 
 help you a little." 
 
 "It helps me to be able to help you," Eleanor 
 assured her. 
 
 "But that is not finding your happiness — 
 that is only learning to get along without it." 
 
 Eleanor looked pensive. "Perhaps that was 
 all that was meant for me," she said softly. 
 
 Dinah looked up into her face and smiled — 
 a respectful but rather inscrutable little smile. 
 "Perhaps you, too," she said, "even in your 
 religion, say that too easily." 
 
 Eleanor did not answer, then. But after 
 Dinah was gone, she sat for a long while, look- 
 ing into the red heart of her log fire. And it 
 might have been an hour later when she said 
 aloud, "Perhaps I do" — and sat down to her 
 desk to write a letter. 
 
 It was the next day that Dinah's erstwhile 
 employer came to see Eleanor. "I've been 
 
JUST FOLKS 269 
 
 thinking," she said, and smiled whimsically at 
 her own slowness in thinking it, "that I was 
 quite as inflexible as Dinah, with far less reason. 
 It wouldn't have hurt me, or even have incon- 
 venienced me, much, to respect her faith; and 
 it would have hurt her terribly to disregard it. 
 I — I wonder if she would forgive me and con- 
 sider coming back to me." 
 
 "I think she would," replied Eleanor, "and 
 if, as time goes on, she comes to feel that any of 
 the tenets of her faith are non-essential, I be- 
 lieve she will be quick to compromise. But she 
 could never be a real artist of any sort if she were 
 not true to her faith. What a problem life is, 
 isn't it ? And how we have to learn, each of us, 
 to grow more and more exacting only about 
 ourselves, and more and more tenderly unexact- 
 ing of other people. Dinah has taught me a 
 great deal." 
 
 To Dinah, a week later — to Dinah, back in 
 the loved studio — Eleanor wrote : — 
 
 "You don't know how I needed you, Dinah 
 dear. You have opened my eyes to many 
 things and, among them, to my own happiness. 
 'The shine' has come back into my life — only 
 tenfold more glorious — and I think it has come 
 to stay. If it does, I have you to thank." 
 
 "Isn't it wonderful," said Dinah when she 
 had read this letter to Jacob, convalescing in 
 
270 JUST FOLKS 
 
 the hospital, "how God has made the world so 
 that we are necessary to one another, and even 
 the — the littlest can help the strong and 
 lovely!" 
 
 Jacob Slinsky's fine face lighted with a look 
 of tenderness, and he reached out and patted 
 Dinah's stubby little hands. 
 
 "Father," whispered Dinah, "do you believe 
 that I am — short, because God was angry ? 
 Or do you think that maybe sometimes he makes 
 us so in — in Love ?" 
 
 "I think, my Dinah," Jacob Slinsky answered, 
 "that — that only for Love God gave you to 
 us." 
 
 And the sunshine, pouring in life-giving floods 
 about Jacob as he sat in his wheel-chair, seemed 
 to his sensitive soul to have a fainter radiance 
 than Dinah's face as she raised it to kiss him 
 good-by. 
 
XIV 
 
 Mikey returned to the John Worthy School 
 immediately after his father's funeral ; but 
 Beth, when she went back with him, told the 
 Superintendent all the details of the case. 
 
 Hitherto, even in the family's direst need, 
 she had hesitated to ask Mikey's release; be- 
 cause she knew how hard for him conditions at 
 home would be, and doubted his ability to en- 
 dure them and withstand the temptations of 
 "de gang." 
 
 But now, if his indeterminate sentence could 
 be terminated (on her petition, through the 
 Juvenile Court, and the sanction of the reform 
 school superintendent) Mikey could go home 
 and not be fretted by having his pa to support. 
 There would be hard conditions for him to face, 
 but he would not be embittered by having to 
 give his earnings to provide his pa with money 
 for drinks and with leisure to keep his feet in the 
 oven. 
 
 There had been a desperate antagonism be- 
 tween Mikey and his pa — an antagonism that 
 was not greatly softened by Pa's tragic end. 
 But now that Pa was gone, it might be that 
 
 271 
 
272 JUST FOLKS 
 
 the responsibility awaiting Mikey in Henry 
 Street would be "the making of him." 
 
 The Superintendent thought it might. He 
 was a man of transcendent kindliness — to 
 many of his prisoners the best friend that they 
 had ever known. He made it truly a "house of 
 correction" — that great institution over which 
 he ruled, and which he preferred to have thus 
 designated rather than by the term Bridewell 
 which has become approbrious since the gentle 
 boy-king, Edward VI, set apart the stately 
 palace by St. Bride's Well for the correctional 
 care of the sin-sick — and he held his responsible 
 office in a way that was a credit to Christian 
 civilization. 
 
 Accordingly, Beth made her plea for Mikey's 
 release, and he was taken into the Juvenile 
 Court to receive the termination of his sentence. 
 
 When told that he was free, Mikey seemed 
 reluctant to go. Beth thought she understood. 
 Mikey was afraid of a demonstrative welcome 
 from his mother — afraid he might break down 
 under it; and he was afraid to face Henry 
 Street. 
 
 He hung around Beth until her court duties 
 were over, then walked with her south on Hal- 
 sted Street and west to Waller. At her corner 
 she hesitated. 
 
 "Shall I go with you, Mikey — would you 
 rather — ?" she asked appealingly. 
 
JUST FOLKS 273 
 
 "Naw," said Mikey, gruffly, "I mane, no'm, 
 I t'ank ye." And in an instant he was gone. 
 
 Beth saw him pull his hat low over his eyes, 
 and turn up his coat collar, after he left her. 
 Her heart ached for him, but she knew no one 
 could help him through this trial. That was the 
 great pity of it ! What actually happened to 
 Mikey in " de bean house" was as humane, as 
 beneficent, as gently correctional as it could 
 well be; but the stigma of having been under 
 restraint remained. Mikey went home by way 
 of the alley. Mrs. Riordan was on her back 
 porch, and saw him. 
 
 "That Casey bye have got out o' jail," she 
 announced to her family when they were 
 assembled at supper, "an' I'll lick the first 
 wan o' youse kids that have annythin' t 9 do 
 wid him." 
 
 In the Casey kitchen, Mary Casey was bak- 
 ing potato cakes on the stove-lids, in lieu of a 
 griddle — Mikey was "awful fond" of potato 
 cakes — and on a high cake dish of red and 
 white glass which had been procured with many 
 trading stamps and was the glory of the house- 
 hold, was a heap of dainties known as Bismarcks 
 — something like a cruller with the hole left 
 out and a splash of red jelly inside — which 
 Mikey preferred even over and above lemon 
 cream pie. 
 
 When the kitchen door opened and Mary 
 
274 JUST FOLKS 
 
 saw her boy, she smothered the cry of joy that 
 rose to her lips and spoke with a fine casualness 
 to the returned one, whose frame of mind seemed 
 to convey itself at once to her quick understand- 
 ing. 
 
 "An' how are you ?" she asked, when he had 
 hung up his hat and set himself down in the 
 old rocker. Her tone and her manner were such 
 as she might have used toward a traveller fresh 
 from some splendid journey. 
 
 "A' right," said Mikey, briefly. He had 
 noted the potato cakes and the Bismarcks in 
 the red glass dish — and he understood. 
 
 One by one the other Caseys came in. Evi- 
 dently they were all acting under instructions 
 — not to say threats — from their ma ; for not 
 one of them alluded in the remotest way to 
 "de bean house," although no command could 
 keep out of their round, wondering eyes the un- 
 certainty as to how their Mikey would seem, 
 after this strange ordeal he had been through. 
 
 Mikey was much sobered by it. But, truth 
 to tell, Mikey had not needed sobering so much 
 as he had needed some other things ; for he was 
 always a dogged rather than a profligate young 
 person. 
 
 Perhaps only a mother-love could feel what 
 Mikey needed. Certainly the Law had not ; or, 
 if it had felt the need, it had done nothing ade- 
 quate to meet it. But Mary knew. She had 
 
JUST FOLKS 275 
 
 been talking to Beth about her hopes, these 
 weeks past. 
 
 Mikey had an ambition. No one but his 
 mother knew it, and she never could tell just 
 how she found it out, but it was probably by 
 suspicion. For to suspect Mikey of something, 
 and then to watch for confirmation, was the 
 only way to find out anything about him ; he 
 never confided in any one — he didn't know 
 how ! But however she knew it, Mary was 
 aware that Mikey had an ambition. 
 
 "I dunno," she confessed when telling Beth 
 about it, "but I better l'ave off tryin' t' git 
 jobs fer anny wan, whin I t'ink what happened 
 t' Pat Casey in the job I got 'im sint to. But 
 times ag'in I belave 'twas Providince done that. 
 Mebbe it wasn't niver intinded fer him t' take 
 no chance t' live right — on'y t' die splindid. 
 But I want t' git Mikey a chance t' live, poor 
 bye ! In all his life he ain't got, manny times, 
 t' do what he wanted t' do ; an' he won't git it 
 manny times, I'm t'inkin'. So if he could git 
 this wan ambition, just now whin he do nade it 
 so, 'twould be an awful hilp t' him." 
 
 The ambition of Mikey was to drive a horse. 
 "Anny kind av a horse," Mary opined, "ixcipt 
 a saw-horse er a clo'es-horse. Iver since he 
 was a bit av a bye, he've been that crazy 'bout 
 horses, you wouldn' belave." 
 
 Beth told the factory inspector and he said 
 
276 JUST FOLKS 
 
 he thought something could be done to help 
 Mikey realize his ambition; but he could tell 
 better when he had seen and talked with Mikey. 
 
 It was this fine hope that Mary had, treasured 
 in her heart, when Mikey came home; and 
 while they sat around the supper table — she 
 and her brood of six — she tried to lead up to 
 the subject on her mind. 
 
 "Sure, we kin have Bismarcks ivry wake, 
 whin Mikey git t' workin' an' bringin' in all 
 that money," she began. Mikey said nothing. 
 "I'm hearin' of a gintleman," she went on, 
 "that was askin' Miss Tully did she t'ink you'd 
 be willin' t' drive a horse fer some wan he know." 
 Mikey's gaze was fixed on his plate, but a red 
 spot appeared on each of his pale cheeks, and 
 by this Mary knew he was excited. "D'ye 
 t'ink ye'd wish t' try ?" she asked, as casually 
 as she could. 
 
 "I dunno," said Mikey, "but I might see." 
 
 His mother noticed that, although she pressed 
 another Bismarck on him, he could eat no more. 
 Which was the way she knew what emotions 
 must be working in Mikey's soul. 
 
 The factory inspector got Mikey the coveted 
 job. It was a job with a horse — which was 
 very satisfying; and if Mikey made good at 
 that, there was every reason to hope that some 
 day he would get a team to drive — which was 
 a splendid incentive. If the kingdoms of the 
 
JUST FOLKS 277 
 
 earth had been offered to Mikey, he would have 
 chosen this particular one which was now his. 
 
 He had to get up very early in the mornings 
 — before six — and he was hardly ever home for 
 supper much before eight; so that by the time 
 he had eaten the hearty meal his appetite 
 craved and had read (with a new facility, after 
 his year at the School) some parts of the evening 
 paper, it was time to go to bed — and Mikey 
 was glad to go. His long hours kept him safe 
 from "de gang," and the love of his job filled 
 his life. 
 
 The horse Mikey drove was named Ginger, 
 for the same reason, apparently, that fat New- 
 foundland dogs which never stray from their 
 dooryards are almost always named Rover, 
 and fidgety little black-and-tans are frequently 
 called Fido. And Mikey loved Ginger as other 
 boys love a girl sweetheart — just as shyly and 
 just as idealizingly. When he got up in the 
 mornings and dressed in the dark, he thought 
 how soon he should see Ginger — and was 
 cheered; and when he went home evenings, 
 tired and with no prospect of any variety or 
 boyish fun, he was happy because he knew that 
 in the morning he could come back to Ginger. 
 Mikey was almost demonstrative with Ginger — 
 when no one was by to see or hear — and Gin- 
 ger, who was not used to deep devotion but 
 was none the less hungry for it therefore, wel- 
 
278 JUST FOLKS 
 
 corned Mikey's timid love-making with un- 
 mistakable delight. 
 
 So Mikey was really happy, for the first time 
 in his life; and the Caseys were very comfort- 
 able, for the first time in their lives ; when sun- 
 dry persons known as "freight-handlers" decided 
 to strike for shorter hours and longer pay. 
 
 One evening, after the freight-handlers had 
 been "out" for several days, Mikey came home 
 with a sick heart. He was not quieter than 
 usual — that would hardly have been possible — 
 but Mary knew from the difference in his step 
 as he came along the board walk, that something 
 was the matter. She thought he had lost his 
 job, but she dreaded to ask. Mikey sat up very 
 late, that night, reading the papers. 
 
 The next morning he went to work as usual, 
 and that evening when he came home he was 
 not passively depressed but actively distressed ; 
 witness, a certain glitter in his usually apathetic 
 eyes, and a deep-red flush in his sallow cheeks 
 which wind and weather had not yet tanned. 
 Inarticulate Mikey ! The things he could not 
 say had a way of expressing themselves in tell- 
 tale color in his face. And somehow, though 
 the color was always the same, any one who was 
 at all alert could tell what emotion it signified. 
 Mary knew. And to-night she knew it meant 
 excitement which had in it resentment and 
 angry purpose. "Mikey do be plottin' some- 
 
JUST FOLKS 279 
 
 thin' that he dread t' do," she put it to herself. 
 And it was all she could do to keep from ques- 
 tioning him. But experience had taught her 
 that to question Mikey was to set him stub- 
 bornly on guard against any possible leakage of 
 information. 
 
 In complete silence, but evidently with sup- 
 pressed excitement, Mikey ate his breakfast 
 next morning, and was off — tending to set at 
 ease Mary's fear that his job was lost. But all 
 day long her heart was heavy with a nameless 
 dread. That night she kept Mikey's supper 
 on the stove till nine o'clock, silencing the 
 children's questioning — but not her own ! — 
 by saying "he mus' be workin' late." And when 
 the children were gone to bed, she sat in the 
 kitchen holding her work-worn hands and trying 
 not to be afraid. 
 
 At length, Mikey came ; and at sight of him, 
 Mary's heart gave a great bound of relief. 
 "Yer workin' late," she said; "have ye had 
 annythin' t' ate ?" She hoped Mikey wouldn't 
 know she had been sitting up for him. 
 
 "I ain't workin' no more," he answered 
 dully, as he held his cold hands over the stove. 
 
 Mary didn't know what to say. "Didn' ye 
 like yer job ?" she managed, at last, to falter. 
 
 Mikey couldn't trust himself to answer that; 
 so he stood silent, for a moment, holding out 
 his hands over the scarce-warm lids. Mary 
 
280 JUST FOLKS 
 
 lifted off one of the covers and exposed the bed 
 of soft-coal fire. "I'll have t' stop kapein' a 
 fire all night, pritty soon," she murmured; so 
 that if Mikey wanted to consider the talk about 
 his lost job at an end, he could. 
 
 But evidently Mikey wanted to talk. 
 "Theer's a strike on," he said sullenly. 
 
 "Fer th' love av Hivin ! wheer ?" 
 
 "Here. The freight-handlers has struck, an' 
 yeste'day the roads put on strike-breakers — 
 scabs — an' to-day the teamsters refused t' 
 haul freight that scabs has handled." 
 
 "Air you wan o' thim ?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "An' fer no grievance o' yer own, you've 
 lost yer job ?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "I call that pritty tough." 
 
 "In wan way, 'tis. But agin — " 
 
 "Ah, I know all that talk 'bout stickin' to- 
 gether ! It sound pritty whin yer sayin' it 
 — like all kind av war — but whin ye come to 
 do it, 'tis an ugly business. Min gits together 
 an' talks about brotherhood an' war; an' 
 women an' childern stays at home an' shivers an' 
 pays the pinalty. Don't I know ? Ain't I seen ? 
 Strikes manes idle min an' mischief; idle min 
 an' busy saloons ; idle min an' full pawnshops ; 
 idle min an' hungry childern an' women wid 
 hivy hearts. Theer seem t' be an awful lot av 
 
JUST FOLKS 281 
 
 law 'bout some t'ings ; wouldn' ye suppose theer'd 
 be a law t' settle differunces widout goin' t' 
 war?" 
 
 Mikey listened impatiently. "Ye don't un- 
 derstand" he reiterated doggedly — voicing the 
 eternal argument of youth against age, and of 
 age against youth. 
 
 Earlier in that same evening when Mary 
 sat waiting for Mikey, Hannah Wexsmith 
 climbed the steep, dark stairs of the house on 
 Maxwell Street. When she reached the top 
 of the first flight, a door opened and Mamie 
 Gooch, with the fretting baby in her arms, 
 asked : — 
 
 "Did ye git an evenin' paper ?'* 
 
 "Yes ; ye kin look at it while I'm lightin' 
 the hall lamp." 
 
 Before attending to the hall light to-night, 
 however, Hannah lit the lamp in her own dark 
 little kitchen, so that Mamie Gooch could look 
 at the paper. There was pardonable diplomacy 
 in this, for it would have been too much to ask 
 of human nature to let Mrs. Gooch carry that 
 precious penny paper into her own domain, 
 whence it would never have issued again until 
 it had been read through — murders, strikes, 
 jokes, recipes, evening story, and all — all but 
 editorials and diplomatic news and other inex- 
 plicable cumberings. 
 
282 JUST FOLKS 
 
 Mamie Gooch's concern with the paper to- 
 night, however, was specific; she looked to it, 
 not, as usual, to break the monotony of a long, 
 fretful day, but for assurance that the morrow 
 would not be a day of sharp anxiety compared 
 to which tedium would be heaven. She stood 
 beneath Hannah Wexsmith's light and scanned 
 the strike news eagerly. 
 
 "My God !" she cried presently, "they're or- 
 dered out." She dropped the paper and covered 
 her eyes with her free hand. 
 
 "I knew it would come," she moaned; "an' 
 us with sickness all winter, an' behindhand 
 with everything. He told me this mornin' 
 he was afraid it would come; an' 'God help us 
 if it does,' he says, 'but I got to stand by the 
 union, whatever happens.'" 
 
 "The unions is all the poor men has," ven- 
 tured Hannah. "You wouldn't have him leave 
 it, would you ?" 
 
 "No," feebly, "I don't s'pose I would, but it's 
 awful hard, this goin' out when he has a good 
 place, an' nothin' agin the bosses, an' nothin' 
 to gain if his side wins." 
 
 "You ought to be proud that you're the wife 
 of a man that's willin' to make sacrifices for his 
 fellows. Slosson says that's the great thing 
 about unions ; they show how all lab'ring men 
 has one cause, he says." Slosson was Hannah's 
 chief lodger. 
 
JUST FOLKS 283 
 
 "Well, I'd be willin' fer him to make sacrifices 
 out o' sympathy fer the freight-handlers if we 
 had anythin' to sacrifice, but we ain't ; we got 
 all we can do to get along an' catch up with what 
 we're owin', at best. An' this means no money 
 comin' in for dear knows how long, an' prob'ly 
 his job lost, an' maybe him hurt an' laid up, if 
 all the papers say about riots is true." 
 
 "Slosson says the papers lie awful about the 
 strikes ; they're all fer the rich men, he says." 
 
 "That may be," angrily, "but it's the likes 
 of Slosson that begins all the trouble. He ain't 
 got nobody dependin' on him, an' nothing to do 
 with his money but drink it up, an' it's nothin' 
 to him but a picnic to go on a strike ; he can 
 make you wait fer his rent money, an' the union'll 
 give him enough to buy his drinks. No wonder 
 he can talk loud in favor of going out to help the 
 freight-handlers. No wonder he can shout, 
 'Let's strike' ; an' get my man, that's home that 
 very minute, mindin' the sick baby so I can finish 
 my ironin', out of his good job that he likes an' 
 is satisfied with !" 
 
 Hannah stiffened offendedly when her lodger 
 was accused, and Mrs. Gooch took herself off 
 to her own kitchen, moving wearily, the baby 
 still fretting miserably in her arms. 
 
 Hannah lit the tiny oil-stove and put her kettle 
 on ; her supper was to be a light one, consisting 
 of a cup of tea, without milk, and a thing called 
 
284 JUST FOLKS 
 
 a "rusk," purchasable for a penny and eatable 
 without butter; but she spread one-half of her 
 table neatly, with one of her red-and-white 
 checked table-covers folded double, laid primly 
 out her cup and saucer and plate, knife and fork 
 and spoon, and in the centre of the cloth set the 
 red glass salt-cellar and blue glass pepper-shaker 
 that were the pride of her heart. Hannah always 
 set them forth whether she needed them or not, 
 just as to-night she supplied her place with 
 the pathetically unnecessary knife and fork. 
 
 While her tea was brewing (Hannah liked a 
 strong infusion, and when one had to be sparing 
 of leaves, the only alternative was to be generous 
 of boiling), she read her paper, striving, in her 
 slow, indecisive way, to grasp the movements of 
 the day's battles, but mainly intent on finding in 
 print some account of those stupendous services 
 which Slosson was, by his own admission, render- 
 ing the teamsters' cause. 
 
 The newspaper reports were most confusing, 
 though ; she could make little out of them, and 
 nowhere could she find reference to Slosson. 
 "The rich men won't let the papers tell about 
 him," she reflected. 
 
 Then, as if that she might not lack understand- 
 ing of the war that was being waged between 
 labor and capital, there was a heavy step on the 
 stairs ; it was Gooch's, and there was distress 
 as well as weariness in the leaden shuffle of his 
 
JUST FOLKS 285 
 
 feet. She heard their kitchen door open, and 
 Mamie Gooch exclaim, "Is it true?" Then 
 there was a sharp expression of despair, audible 
 above the baby's crying, and the door closed. 
 
 Hannah felt "awful sorry" for the Gooches. 
 During that winter when he had been so long 
 laid up with inflammatory rheumatism and the 
 new baby had come to the household, they 
 had got deep in debt — the kind of debt out 
 of which hardly any one ever escapes : debt 
 to the loan shark. It was " ter'ble hard," Hannah 
 reflected, for Joe Gooch to be told he couldn't 
 work, when he needed work so much ; to be told 
 that he couldn't work and that he'd be shot if 
 he tried to. Slosson had informed Hannah of 
 his intentions. What with his terrible prowess 
 and sleepless activities, "this here strike" was 
 going to be kept up no matter how long it 
 took to bring "the rich men" to terms. "No 
 damned cowards was going to be allowed to quit 
 the fight." 
 
 Suppose — in Hannah's mind the struggle was 
 narrowed to these two men who worked at the 
 same calling and dwelt side by side above Mona- 
 han's grocery — suppose Gooch should weaken, 
 and Slosson should kill Gooch ! 
 
 Staggered by the possibilities which to her, in 
 her tiny mental world, were probabilities, Hannah 
 cleared away after her frugal meal and went 
 downstairs to her station on the single step, in 
 
286 JUST FOLKS 
 
 the shadow of Monahan's sidewalk display. It 
 had been raining, and the sidewalk was sloppy ; 
 but Hannah felt that she could not endure her 
 agitating thoughts in the loneliness of her tomb- 
 like kitchen. 
 
 About eight o'clock, Joe Gooch crowded past 
 her and went toward Halsted Street. Hannah 
 felt sure he was going to the union headquarters, 
 and that he was going to protest, and she 
 trembled in fear of an immediate encounter 
 with Slosson. The smaller of her renting rooms 
 being vacant, and Slosson gone on a strike, 
 Hannah had her own worries, too; and the 
 problem of the future, as it concerned her rent 
 and her occasional "rusk," was terrible enough 
 without this other element of fear about Slosson 
 and Gooch. 
 
 Joe bought a paper of a boy on the corner, 
 making Hannah regretful that she had not 
 offered him hers — for pennies would be pre- 
 cious, now — and swung on to a northbound car. 
 Hannah did not see him get on the car. It would 
 never have occurred to her that he would afford 
 himself carfare; feminine and masculine econo- 
 mies will always be mysteries to each other. 
 
 Joe Gooch, however, if he was faint of heart, 
 was not going to protest the orders of his union 
 yet, though his spirit was heavy because he 
 could not yield to the union's demands with a 
 better grace. Nothing could shake his earnest 
 
JUST FOLKS 287 
 
 conviction that the union was the workingman's 
 only hope; and though he doubted the justice 
 of this particular conflict and could not doubt, 
 as he would have liked to doubt, the charges of 
 foul play that were being laid on the labor leaders, 
 there never was any possible course for him but 
 that which his union dictated. It was hard, 
 God knew ; but when was war ever easy ? And 
 what cause, of all that men had ever fought for, 
 could have been so near and dear to the men 
 who fought and the women and children who 
 starved and suffered, as this great cause the 
 unions stood for ? It was hard to leave Mamie 
 crying; to think, as he must think, of the 
 harassing weeks to come. But what would you ? 
 This was war ! 
 
 The paper Gooch bought was full of the law- 
 lessness of the strikers, picturing them as blood- 
 thirsty miscreants seeking to inaugurate a reign 
 of terror, and with a gesture of angry disgust he 
 threw it on the floor of the car and trampled it 
 under foot. 
 
 Down town, he drifted restlessly from one spot 
 where the conflict came to an issue, to another. 
 At the mouth of an alley wherein were the 
 shipping platforms of a big mercantile house, 
 Gooch saw Slosson, who told him it was be- 
 lieved this house meant to move a lot of goods 
 with non-union niggers driving, that night. 
 
 "Pm on to them," laughed Slosson, between 
 
288 JUST FOLKS 
 
 puffs of a big, bad cigar. "I'd like to see a 
 wagon leave this alley to-night." 
 
 There were a dozen other pickets near by, 
 and across the street as many police lounged 
 and waited, a patrol standing ready for emer- 
 gency. 
 
 Gooch turned away from his neighbor in 
 disgust. 
 
 "Acts as if the whole thing was on his shoul- 
 ders," he muttered to an acquaintance he had 
 picked up in the course of his drifting; "an' it's 
 fellers like him, with their cheap talk and no 
 responsibilities, that has got hundreds of us that's 
 anxious to work into all this trouble. It's not 
 the unions that's wrong; it's men like Slosson, 
 who get control of the unions. They'll bring us a 
 bad name with the public, with their loud talk an' 
 their high-handedness. An' by drivin' us into 
 fights we can't win, they'll get us the reputation 
 of losin', an' that's a bad thing for any manor 
 lot of men to have. Yes, sir ; men like Slosson is 
 killin' the unions, an' we're standin' around 
 helpless an' not figurin' at all !" 
 
 Gooch found no lack of sympathizers in this 
 view. Men he stopped to talk with in the streets, 
 men he got into conversation with in one or two 
 saloons into which he dropped for a glass of beer, 
 echoed his sentiments. "From the d — news- 
 papers," he told one man he met, "you'd think 
 every teamster that's out was so crazy to strike, 
 
JUST FOLKS 289 
 
 they couldn't be held back. But you know, 
 an' I know, that there's more strikin' against 
 their will than otherwise. On'y we're keepin' 
 still, out o' loyalty to our union, an' nothin's 
 said about us. An' the other fellers is throwin' 
 rocks an' gettin' into the papers." 
 
 It happened that the chance acquaintance to 
 whom Gooch had confided his opinion of Slos- 
 son had a misguided zeal for the cause, or a 
 sneak's desire to seem zealous at small cost, 
 and felt constrained to tell Slosson what his 
 neighbor had said, with a suggestion that Gooch 
 might need watching. 
 
 Slosson gratefully bought the man three 
 drinks as reward for this information, so valu- 
 able to "the leaders of this here fight — " mean- 
 ing Slosson, who had rewarded so many faithful 
 that day, always courteously drinking with 
 them, of course, that by this time he began to 
 seem to himself the only leader worth consider- 
 ing. 
 
 Gooch was up, heating water to soothe the 
 baby's colic, when Slosson came staggering up 
 the stairs, knocking his feet noisily on every 
 step and cursing loudly at the darkness. 
 
 "It's nothin' to him," reflected Gooch, bitterly, 
 as he heard the door of Hannah's front room 
 slam, "that my kid's sick, an' I dassent spend 
 a cent fer medicine." 
 
XV 
 
 The strike wore on ; but it was a losing fight 
 for the teamsters and the freight-handlers. 
 Non-union men were handling freight; the 
 hoped-for sympathetic strike did not materialize ; 
 and a boy "widout principles" was driving 
 Ginger. 
 
 Mikey sat at home, a great deal of the time 
 — as if fearful to trust himself elsewhere in 
 idleness — and Mary did everything she could 
 to encourage him. She did not approve of the 
 strike, but she could see that, for some reason 
 or another, Mikey felt in honor bound to sup- 
 port it, else he had never made for it so supreme 
 a sacrifice as Ginger. And she knew that what- 
 ever it was in Mikey which made him give up 
 the job he loved, it must be dealt gently with, 
 just now. Even if it was an unwise sentiment, 
 it was the alternative for despair and a slipping 
 back into old ways of the days before "de bean 
 house." 
 
 It was hard to make the children understand. 
 Johnny, in particular, was unsympathetic. 
 "Aw," he said bitterly, "Mikey's goin' t' be 
 jes' like Pa — wan o' thim that's got such gran' 
 princ'ples he can't work." 
 
 290 
 
JUST FOLKS 291 
 
 "Hold yer tongue agin yer brother!" com- 
 manded Mary, who always took up the cudgels 
 of defence for any of her family that the others 
 maligned. "He didn' give up that job widout 
 some dape rayson. If he was diffrunt from 
 what he is, we might try t' change his raysonin'. 
 But he's wan o' thim that don't change aisy, an' 
 almos' niver changes ixcipt fer the worse if ye 
 try t' drive him. Thim quiet kind, that don't 
 let hem ner haw out o' thim, is mos'ly that 
 way. I don' blame Mikey. I tuck me own 
 disapp'intmints that way before he — whin he 
 was born. By an' by I l'arned better; mebbe 
 he will, whin he've had as much poundin' t' git 
 sinse into him as what I've had. Mebbe he 
 won't l'arn. Annyway, you l'ave him be, if 
 you don' want him back wid the gang that got 
 him put up before." 
 
 It was a pity Mikey could not have over- 
 heard his mother's defence ; it might have helped 
 to hearten him. 
 
 Beth Tully had gone home to see her mother 
 and to take a much-needed rest ; so she was not 
 there to appeal to. The factory inspector 
 could not be expected to regard sympathetically 
 Mikey's treatment of the position recently got 
 for him ; so Mikey dared not ask there for an- 
 other. He tried, as best he could, to get some 
 kind of work — but without success. Nobody, 
 it seemed, wanted a boy out of the Reform 
 
2 9 2 JUST FOLKS 
 
 School. The Law had told Mikey, when it 
 "put him away," that it was doing this for 
 Mikey's own good. But Mikey found himself 
 branded almost as effectually as if with a peni- 
 tentiary sentence; and it further embittered 
 that young soul of his which had never known 
 much else but bitterness. Undoubtedly there 
 were in town — though Mikey did not know it 
 — several thousand over-busy but warm-hearted 
 employers of labor who, if Mikey's case had been 
 sympathetically presented to them, would have 
 said: "Certainly ! Bring the boy over and I'll 
 see that he gets a chance." But Beth was 
 away, they were afraid to ask Eleanor, and 
 Mikey never got to those busy men ; he didn't 
 get any job. 
 
 "T'ings is all agin me !" he told his mother, 
 one night, in a sudden burst of despair. 
 
 "T'ings is not all agin ye!" Mary assured 
 him, trying to believe her own assurance. "I've 
 lived longer'n you, an' I tell ye, whin t'ings 
 git so hard ye t'ink they can't git worse, they 
 always turn, just thin, an' git better." 
 
 But it was hard times in the Henry Street 
 cellar, and Mary had finally to have recourse 
 to what the children dreaded, and with good 
 reason. She went down town to scrub. This 
 meant leaving home every afternoon soon after 
 the children got back from school. It meant 
 that Midget and Mollie had to "mind" little 
 
JUST FOLKS 293 
 
 Annie and put her to bed; that they had to 
 cook, as best they could, the supper their mother 
 left ready for them ; it meant the difference 
 between irksome responsibility and that care- 
 freeness which Mary was prone to give her 
 children whenever she could, on the plea that 
 they'd better play while they could — for they'd 
 get little enough of it all the rest of their lives. 
 
 The night Mikey came home from fruitless 
 job-hunting and found his mother gone to 
 scrub, something bitterer than had ever been 
 there before came into his young face — and 
 stayed. It wasn't the scrubbing that hurt; he 
 was inured to the idea of his mother as a patient 
 drudge. It was that this seemed to him the 
 acknowledgment of his defeat. It wasn't any 
 use ! Even his mother had given up hoping 
 and gone to scrub. 
 
 It was one o'clock when Mary came stumbling 
 along the uneven board walk of the pitchy black 
 passageway between her tenement and the next. 
 Mikey was sitting up, in the old wooden rocker 
 drawn close by the stove whereon he had the 
 kettle boiling to make his mother some tea. 
 
 "Ma," he said, as she steeped her tea, "some- 
 thin' is wrong ! I can't stand it no longer." 
 
 "What d'ye mane ?" she cried, setting the 
 kettle dowm sharply. 
 
 "I dunno what I mane," he answered dully, 
 "on'y I can't stan' much more." 
 
294 JUST FOLKS 
 
 "That's what we all t'ink whin we're young," 
 she soothed, "but theer ain't no limit t' what 
 a body kin stand. Don't / know that ? D'ye 
 know how I've done it ? I've toP mesilf I 
 could surely manage t' stan' wan more day; 
 an' whin that day was done, I'd say I'd make 
 out t' stan' another before I'd turn coward. 
 Theer's more than me has got t'rough life be 
 playin' that little game wid thimsilves, I'm 
 thinkin'. Yer young t' have t' l'arn it, Mikey 
 bye. An' I'm sorry fer ye. But ye needn' tell 
 me yer pa's son is goin' t' be no coward." 
 
 " Dyin's easy," observed Mikey, briefly. " It's 
 livin' that's too hard fer most." 
 
 "I know," said Mary, "theer's a lot in that. 
 But go t' bed, me bye. 'Tis wonderful how 
 much more wan fale like standin', in the mornin'." 
 
 Meanwhile, acute distress reigned on the 
 floor above Monahan's grocery. The Gooches 
 had kept soul and body together on the pit- 
 tance doled out from the union fund, though it 
 sufficed neither for rent, nor shoes, nor medicine. 
 But Hannah Wexsmith was in despair ; she had 
 succeeded in renting her small room for a dollar 
 and a half a week, but Slosson was now some 
 twenty-odd dollars "behind-hand," two months' 
 rent was overdue, and "rusk" for luncheon was 
 no longer to be thought of ; she could not afford 
 even to buy an evening paper. Evicting Slosson 
 
JUST FOLKS 29s 
 
 had never occurred to Hannah. Had he not 
 been lodging with her for eight years — ever 
 since Wexsmith died ? Small use to argue that 
 she might do better with her swell front room, 
 with its trailing starched Nottingham, its "en- 
 largements" of Wexsmith and herself, its folding- 
 bed disguised as a tin mantel, and its two patent 
 rockers. She had small cause to love Slosson, 
 but she was accustomed to him, and Hannah 
 shrank from nothing so much as from change. 
 
 "You could sell that for more than enough 
 to pay your rent," the landlord's collector had 
 said, nodding at an old kitchen dresser which 
 had come with Wexsmith's mother from over- 
 seas and was, though Hannah did not dream it, 
 a handsome and valuable bit of antique. 
 
 Astonished, hurt, she looked at the dresser 
 and shook her head. She would do almost any- 
 thing to pay the rent, but — "Where would I 
 keep my cups ?" she said. 
 
 No more could she conceive her widowed, 
 self-supporting life without Slosson; so Slosson 
 stayed, and more and more hours out of each 
 day Hannah sat in the big Jesuit church and 
 prayed that the Mother of God would help her 
 pay the rent ; she never obtruded upon Heaven 
 the inconsiderable fact that she was hungry. 
 
 As the strike dragged its weary length along, 
 looking every day more and more hopeless for 
 the strikers — ugly tales of "graft" filling the 
 
296 JUST FOLKS 
 
 prints and the air meanwhile — the fund avail- 
 able for strikers' maintenance grew more and 
 more tragically inadequate to keep hunger and 
 eviction writs at bay. Sympathizing members 
 of other unions were faithfully paying their 
 weekly tithes into the treasury of the distressed, 
 but there was a hitch somewhere. The rumors 
 about the dissipation and extravagance of the 
 leaders might or might not be true, but the loan 
 sharks and pawnbrokers were waxing rich, the 
 number of children clamoring for employment, 
 of women besieging sweatshops for work, had 
 become terrible. 
 
 After two weeks, Gooch's dole had been cut 
 down from seven dollars to five; now, for a 
 fortnight, none at all had been paid. Some one 
 hanging about union headquarters on the same 
 errand as himself had reported to Gooch, when 
 he tried in vain to collect his due, that Slosson 
 had been instrumental in cutting it off. "He 
 says there's little enough for the faithful, with- 
 out givin' any to them that's no love fer the 
 union," the man said. 
 
 "Love fer the union!" cried Gooch. "My 
 God ! If I ain't got it, I'd like to know what's 
 keepin' me from killin' that Slosson any day ? 
 This strike's nothin' but a long picnic to him ; 
 he ain't payin' no rent to his poor, starvin' little 
 landlady, and the union's keepin' him in drinks 
 an' free lunches, an' he's got no work to do — 
 
JUST FOLKS 297 
 
 no wonder he can talk big and jeer at me because 
 I want to go back to work. I'd a' killed him 
 long ago, if it wasn't fer bringin' a bad name 
 on my union an' our fight." 
 
 Lean, haggard, heavy-hearted, Gooch dragged 
 himself home to tell Mamie of his non-success 
 and consult with her as to what extreme measure 
 they might take to get a little food and to hold 
 the loan shark at bay. 
 
 Gooch's mind, like poor Hannah's, had travelled 
 over and over and over, so many weary times, 
 the little round of possibilities, that the process 
 had finally become mechanical, defeating its own 
 ends. Dazed, unable to think, he climbed the 
 stairs. It was supper-time, and it took all the 
 man's courage to enter his home empty-handed. 
 
 The kitchen was dark, dark as a pocket, 
 though the great towers of the Jesuit church 
 were outlined against a gorgeous sunset as he 
 came by, and it would be two hours yet ere the 
 summer day was done. 
 
 "Mamie must have gone out," he said to 
 himself, remembering bitterly that they had had 
 no oil for a week and that the last of their 
 candles was all but gone. "Perhaps they're in 
 Mrs. Wexsmith's." But they weren't. Mrs. 
 Wexsmith had no light either, and was sitting 
 by her open kitchen door, that the feeble beacon 
 in the hall, which the landlord supplied, might 
 mitigate her gloom. 
 
298 JUST FOLKS 
 
 Yes, she had heard Mrs. Gooch go out with 
 the two children an hour ago, but she didn't 
 speak, and Hannah had no idea where they 
 might have gone. For a few minutes Gooch 
 sat talking with his neighbor, then went back 
 to his own rooms. An almost overmastering 
 impulse to flee them and seek refuge anywhere 
 came to him, but he had never learned to shirk 
 responsibility. Mamie and the kids would be 
 coming home soon to a dark, supperless house; 
 at least he would be there when they came; 
 perhaps, together, he and Mamie might devise 
 something to be done. 
 
 An hour passed — two ; grown very nervous, 
 Gooch got up and "borrowed" the hall light 
 while he hunted for the bit of candle left from 
 last night. As he hunted, his eye fell upon a 
 scrap of paper : — 
 
 "I have taken the children and gone. 
 
 "Mamie." 
 
 Gone ! Where ? Crazed, he thought of the 
 river, of the lake ; tried to think of other places 
 whither the maddened betook themselves ; but 
 his brain refused to serve him. Habit, the habit 
 of careful years, made him set the lighted lamp 
 back in its socket; then he stumbled, like a 
 mortally-stricken thing seeking a quiet place to 
 die, into his black kitchen and shut the door. 
 
 The sense of time was lost to him ; how long 
 he sat, he could not know. But the weakness 
 
JUST FOLKS 299 
 
 of long hunger kept him dulled, if it kept him 
 inactive, and his sufferings were not poignant; 
 he hadn't strength for poignancy. 
 
 He didn't hear Hannah come in from church, 
 where the lights were few but free and sufficient 
 for prayer. He didn't hear the lodger of the 
 little room come home. But at some time before 
 the hall light had flickered out, he heard on the 
 stairs the staggering, stumbling step of Slosson. 
 As if he had been listening for it — perhaps he 
 had, he wasn't conscious as to that — Gooch 
 got up and opened his door. As Slosson neared 
 the top, he raised his eyes and saw Gooch, the 
 sickly ray from the hall light, with its worn re- 
 flector, falling full on the white face of a madman. 
 
 "Geddout o' my way," ordered the "leader," 
 imperiously, balancing himself with difficulty 
 and making nice calculations for the top step. 
 
 For answer, an arm shot out, and a heavy 
 fist landed accurately beneath Slosson's chin. 
 There was a cry, a succession of bumps, then 
 silence. 
 
 Hannah Wexsmith's door opened, and she 
 stood framed in it, a grotesque little figure in a 
 coarse, skimp nightgown buttoned at .the throat 
 with a big white china button, her crimping pins 
 looking like horns standing up from her head; 
 only the last lengths of terror could have driven 
 Hannah Wexsmith so attired into the view of 
 any human creature. 
 
300 JUST FOLKS^ 
 
 Gooch looked, in the wan light, the most 
 startled of the three persons present ; Hannah's 
 other lodger seemed rather annoyed by the dis- 
 turbance than concerned with its outcome. It 
 never occurred either to him or to Hannah that 
 Gooch had more to do with the tragedy than 
 they themselves. Hannah had lost uncounted 
 hours' sleep in the expectation that Slosson 
 would tumble down those stairs and be killed. 
 
 Hurriedly she lit a candle in Slosson's room 
 (he never needed more, and it was all she could 
 do to provide oil for the lodger who paid and 
 demanded) and commanded the tin mantel to 
 become a bed, whereon the limp form that 
 Gooch and the lodger were carrying upstairs 
 might be laid. 
 
 There was a doctor at the corner, and it was 
 but a few minutes until he was there, pronounc- 
 ing the injuries to include a broken arm and a 
 skull fracture, probably fatal. 
 
 "Fell, I suppose?" interrogated the doctor, 
 perfunctorily. Slosson's intoxication was so evi- 
 dent that there seemed but one way for him to 
 have come by this accident. 
 
 "Yes," assented Hannah, adding, as if in 
 sufficient extenuation, "he've had th' failin' 
 these many years, an' I'm expectin' him to do 
 this ever since he come to rent of me." 
 
 Gooch, still only half comprehending what 
 was going on, sat in one of Hannah's patent 
 
JUST FOLKS 301 
 
 rockers, his head in his hands ; the doctor 
 thought him drunk, too. 
 
 "Was he," nodding toward Gooch, "with 
 him?" 
 
 "No, oh, no ! he lives in the rear." Then, it 
 suddenly occurring to her, "Mis' Gooch got 
 home all right, didn't she, Mr. Gooch ? " 
 
 Gooch lifted his haggard face and shook his 
 head in a despairing negative. 
 
 "Fer the love of mercy !" cried Hannah, for- 
 getting Slosson for a moment. 
 
 The doctor was writing something which 
 would doubtless be needed in a death certificate, 
 when there was a sound of the street-door open- 
 ing and of stumbling steps on the pitch-black 
 stairway. The hall light had gone out, and 
 Hannah, excitedly unmindful yet of her strange 
 attire, seized the candle and hurried to the 
 head of the stairs. 
 
 Gooch was close behind her, his mind, which 
 had not grasped the significance of anything 
 since Mamie's note, suddenly alert again and 
 full of terror. The glimmer of the candle 
 faintly revealed Mamie struggling up the stairs, 
 the baby in one arm, and the other hand direct- 
 ing the uncertain steps of little Clarence, half 
 dead with sleepiness. 
 
 "Mis' Gooch!" cried Hannah, the feeble 
 beacon quivering in her hand, "in God's name, 
 where you bin ?" 
 
302 JUST FOLKS 
 
 "Come here with that light," called the 
 doctor, impatiently, mentally cursing the pitchy 
 dark and these people who acted so strangely. 
 
 "Where's your lamps ?" he demanded of 
 Hannah, when she returned with the candle. 
 
 The lodger produced his, lit it, and the doctor 
 ordered it held for him while he made his way 
 downstairs to telephone for an ambulance. 
 
 "Then go back and sit with him till I come," 
 he said, and was off, stumbling over the reunited 
 Gooches in the hall. 
 
 By the light of his departing they made their 
 way into their own black kitchen, and when 
 Hannah followed them with Slosson's candle, 
 she found Gooch sobbing violently, his head on 
 Mamie's shoulder. The baby was still in the 
 crook of that much-enduring arm, and Clarence 
 had stretched his utterly fagged little body 
 on the floor. Mamie, meanwhile, was explain- 
 ing : — 
 
 "When we went, Clarence was cryin' fer his 
 supper," she said, "an' I knew there wouldn't 
 be none for him, an' the baby was frettin' terrible, 
 an' I was just wore out. I can't stand it no 
 more, thinks I, an' I'll go — mebby to the lake, 
 mebby to ask some one for somethin' fer these 
 childern to eat, whose pa wants to work an' 
 dassent. Then I thought o' Shea an' them that's 
 said to be makin' their big money out o' this 
 strike, an' are livin' grand in hotels while we 
 
JUST FOLKS 303 
 
 starve. An' I'll go to Shea, thinks I, an' ast 
 him what he's got to say to Clarence when he 
 cries fer his supper. So I walked all the way to 
 the Briggs House, carryin' the baby here, an' 
 draggin' Clarence by the hand, an' there I set 
 an' waited to see his nibs until twelve o'clock. 
 He wasn't in to supper, they said, an' so I said I'd 
 wait. I had to wait!" shrilly, "I couldn't 
 'a' walked back if I'd 'a' wanted to. Clarence 
 fretted hisself to sleep, smellin' the supper in 
 the restyraunt, an' I was all wore out 'n' couldn't 
 no more 'a' got myself back home, lettin' alone 
 the kids, than I could 'a' flew. So there was 
 nothin' to do but wait, an' when they wanted to 
 put me out, I wouldn't go, an' told 'em why. 
 So they leaved me stay there an' wait fer him, 
 but he didn't come, an' when it got twelve 
 o'clock some fellers that was settin' 'round took 
 up a little money amongst 'em an' bought me an' 
 Clarence somethin' to eat an' gave me money to 
 ride home an' to buy a few little things. Was 
 you scared about me ?" she finished, unable to 
 help enjoying the drama of the situation. 
 
 "Scared?" Gooch lifted his head. "I was 
 mad, Mamie — loony, insane. An'," — realiza- 
 tion returning to him in a cruel flash — "My 
 God ! what I done ! I knocked that Slosson 
 downstairs." 
 
 An exclamation of horror from Hannah seemed 
 their first intimation of her presence, and Gooch, 
 
304 JUST FOLKS 
 
 looking at her, shuddered at the accusation in 
 her face. 
 
 "Is he goin' to die ?" he asked. 
 
 "The doctor said he might." 
 
 "Good God, Mamie, then Pm a murderer!" 
 
 At two o'clock the ambulance came to take 
 Slosson to the County Hospital. 
 
 "Anything to go with him ?" asked one of the 
 stretchermen. 
 
 Hannah flushed as she answered in the nega- 
 tive ; in eight years this subject had not ceased 
 to be a sore point with her. In all the years 
 of his stay with her, there had never been a time 
 when Slosson, closing behind him the door of 
 Hannah's best room, had left in it a single posses- 
 sion of his own, to the extent of a collar-button. 
 Everything in the world that he owned, Slosson 
 carried on his back or in his pockets. He never 
 bought any clean or new clothes until those 
 he was wearing refused to do duty for another 
 day. And when he bought new, he came 
 home without the old. No persuasion of Han- 
 nah's could induce him to own even an extra pair 
 of socks, though she offered to wash and darn 
 them ; and such a thing as a night-shirt was not 
 to be thought of for an instant. Only the 
 force of habit or lack of initiative to go else- 
 where brought Slosson back and back to the 
 best room for eight years ; so far as the anchor- 
 
JUST FOLKS 305 
 
 age of possessions was concerned, any room in 
 Chicago was as much his home. 
 
 No, he had never been married that she knew 
 of, Hannah told the ambulance attendant who 
 interrogated her, pencil and entrance blank in 
 hand. He had a brother, she believed, living 
 in or near Three Oaks, Michigan; that was 
 the only relative she had ever heard of. And 
 he belonged to the teamsters' union — to the 
 wholesale delivery branch — and they would 
 pay for his care or his burying. His age was 
 forty-four, and he had "the failin'," and he had 
 — here Hannah crossed herself, but was unable 
 to exorcise visions of her soul in everlasting 
 torment — fallen downstairs while drunk, as 
 she had always feared he would. 
 
 When the ambulance had gone, Hannah tip- 
 toed out of the room as respectfully as if it were 
 still Slosson's, and betook herself and the rem- 
 nant of candle to the stifling, unventilated 
 closet where she had her bed. 
 
 It was a hot, muggy night at the end of June, 
 and no cool of approaching dawn had found its 
 way to Blue Island Avenue. But it was not the 
 heat Hannah minded, as she sank on her knees 
 to pray ; it was not her old, familiar perplexity 
 about the rent. It was a new terror, and such 
 as drove her almost mad to contemplate. 
 
 Morning found her still on her knees, stiff 
 with cramp and fatigue, but praying, praying; 
 
306 JUST FOLKS 
 
 and ever the words of Gooch rang like a knell in 
 her ears : "Good God, Mamie, then I'm a mur- 
 derer!" A murderer! And she had lied to 
 shield him ! 
 
 At five o'clock she was in the church en- 
 treating confession, startling the stolid German 
 priest with her anguished countenance and 
 manner of great guilt. 
 
 At six oclock she climbed the stairs again. 
 Part of the confessor's advice had been: "Go 
 home and make yourself a good stiff cup of black 
 coffee ; you're so weak you can't think. Then 
 you must see if your neighbor won't confess his 
 crime. If he does, it isn't likely he'll get much 
 punishment from any court — not in the circum- 
 stances — even if the man dies. But if he doesn't 
 confess and take what's coming to him, your 
 neighbor'll be a wretched man to the day of his 
 death. Try to make him tell ; it'll be better for 
 him to tell than for you to tell on him. But if 
 he won't tell, and there's an inquest or examina- 
 tion, you must tell what you heard this man 
 say." 
 
 Hannah was unable to obey about the coffee, 
 but she had a little tea and made herself as strong 
 a cup of this as she could. While she was drink- 
 ing it, she heard the Gooches stirring in their 
 kitchen. A few moments later their door opened. 
 The sickening sound of sobbing came to Hannah, 
 mingled with the crying of children. Then 
 
 i 
 
JUST FOLKS 307 
 
 Gooch went downstairs, and the street-door 
 closed behind him, while Mamie, with a wild 
 cry of despair, came and threw herself into Han- 
 nah's arms. 
 
 The night shift at Maxwell Street Station was 
 yawning through the last tedious hours of duty 
 when Gooch walked up to the desk and an- 
 nounced in a quiet, determined voice : — 
 
 "I've murdered a man." 
 
 The sergeant looked up, interested ; no mere 
 tale of theft or assault, this, or story of some 
 one missing ; this was " real business." 
 
 Gooch needed little questioning to draw forth 
 his story, which he told with evident straight- 
 forwardness and no attempt at extenuation. 
 
 There had been "bad blood" between him 
 and Slosson since the beginning of the strike, 
 he explained, and then when he heard that 
 Slosson had kept him from getting his weekly 
 dole and said he was unfaithful to the union, 
 and the children cried for food, Gooch knew he 
 was going to hurt Slosson. Finally, Mamie 
 took the kids and left ; that was the last straw. 
 "I thought she had drowned herself, or some- 
 thing like that, an' I was crazy. I never could 
 'a' dreamed she was only down to see Shea — " 
 
 "What's that ?" One of the roundsmen who 
 had been reading a morning paper sat forward 
 in his arm-chair. Gooch repeated. 
 
308 JUST FOLKS 
 
 "That must be the woman it tells about here." 
 He pointed to a paragraph headed : — 
 
 WIFE APPEALS TO SHEA 
 
 Wife and Starving Children of Striking 
 
 Teamster Gooch Sit for Hours in 
 
 Briggs House Waiting to see Shea 
 
 Then followed a "stickful" of copy written by a 
 reporter doing strike duty at the Briggs House; 
 he had been one of the "fellers" to contribute 
 to the midnight supper of Mamie and the 
 children, and in the absence of more important 
 news his little "Side-light on the Strike" found 
 place in the morning paper. 
 
 Gooch read the paragraph with more distress, 
 seemingly, than he had evinced over the murder. 
 
 "She oughtn't never to've done it," he said 
 with spirit. "People'll think I set her up to it, 
 that I ain't got spunk to stand up an' take 
 what's comin' to me in a fight. But," humbly, 
 "I hadn't oughter done what I done, neither. 
 Every union man that hits a blow except in 
 self-defence is hurtin' all the others, bringin' 
 'em a bad name. I oughtn't to ha' done it, no 
 matter what Slosson done. The way I feel 
 about the union is, my life'd be only too little 
 to give if it'd help the cause any. Why couldn't 
 I 'a' had patience, jes' patience to wait ? But 
 God A'mighty, it's hard to hear Mamie an' the 
 
JUST FOLKS 309 
 
 kids cry for hunger ! An' now my life's as good 
 as gone, an' the shame of it, an' no good done 
 to nobody!" 
 
 Gooch was booked by sympathetic jailers, 
 and when he had been locked up, an officer 
 went over to find Mamie and do what he could 
 to reassure her. 
 
 By ten o'clock Mamie was overrun with re- 
 porters, men and women. The floor above 
 Monahan's became, momentarily, the centre- 
 front of the stage whereon the great strike was 
 enacting its drama, and the spot light of the daily 
 presswas toplayfor a brief while between Gooch's 
 cell at Maxwell Street Station, Slosson's cot at 
 the "County," and the rooms where Mamie 
 and Hannah sat and waited they knew not 
 what. 
 
 The first reporter brought good news. Slosson 
 was not dead. Nobody cared much on Slos- 
 son's account, but everybody cared on Gooch's. 
 Toward noon a telegram came from Three Oaks, 
 Michigan, whither word had been wired that 
 Slosson was probably fatally hurt. "Just bury 
 him in Chicago," was the grief-stricken response. 
 But Slosson declined to be buried yet. The 
 fall that would have killed any other man had 
 only inconvenienced him; his arm was broken, 
 but the succession of bumps had not materially 
 damaged his head. "Drunken men's luck," 
 the surgeon muttered. Slosson was so far out of 
 
310 JUST FOLKS 
 
 danger before night that Gooch was let out on 
 bail, which was easily forthcoming after the 
 evening papers had been read. 
 
 He and Mamie and the kids had Hannah as 
 their guest for supper in the kitchen which only 
 last night had been so dark. None of them 
 could eat much, except the children, who were 
 not moved by the excitement of the evening 
 papers. Gooch was very anxious and read 
 every line of every account. 
 
 "I asked them young men to be sure an' put 
 in about how I stand about the union," he said. 
 "I was afraid they wouldn't. I don't want any 
 one to think we're not true till death, Mamie 
 an' me." 
 
 "They won't," comforted Hannah, wishing she 
 could feel as sure no one would think ill of her 
 for having gone to confession with her hair in 
 curling pins; "an' what d'ye think? One o' 
 them ladies that writes pieces fer the paper 
 said she could get me a new dresser, an' forty 
 dollars besides, for my old kitchen one that 
 belonged to his ma. So poor Slosson needn't 
 worry 'bout his rent." 
 
XVI 
 
 Beth came back a week after the episode of 
 Gooch and Slosson and found, after a month's 
 absence, so much history to hear that it seemed 
 as if she would never be able to catch up with it. 
 
 Adam Spear's observations on the strike were 
 particularly voluble. It seemed a thousand pities 
 that such astute knowledge of the entire situa- 
 tion should blush unseen beside Liza's fireless 
 stove — Adam had the stove habit so fixedly 
 that he could never get far away from it even in 
 summer when the stove stood cold for months 
 and a gasoline substitute did its work. Hart 
 Ferris gave Adam's vast knowledge what public- 
 ity he could, thanking his stars that the paper 
 he worked for was not The News which Adam 
 read religiously ; but though it seemed to enter- 
 tain some persons, it did nothing discoverable 
 to settle the strike. 
 
 Meanwhile, Beth was busy about many things, 
 but trying all the while to get Mikey a job. She 
 was very much incensed to find that such jobs 
 as she could get did not appeal to Mikey ! 
 
 "I believe," she told Ferris one evening, 
 "that Mikey's going to be just like his pa. He 
 doesn't seem to want to work." 
 
 311 
 
312 JUST FOLKS 
 
 "Then why bother with him ?" said Ferris, 
 feeling very philosophical. 
 
 Beth didn't deign any reply. The next time 
 she was at Mary's and found Mikey home, she 
 asked him to walk back with her toward Maxwell 
 Street. Under the safe cover of the swarming 
 streets, she talked to him ; tried to arouse his 
 sense of manhood, of responsibility. 
 
 "It isn't a question of what you like to do, 
 Mikey," she told him. "It's a question of 
 what you must do. You're the man of that 
 family now, and you must try to help your 
 mother all you can. Think of all she has 
 suffered ! You don't want Johnny and Dewey 
 to have things as hard as you had them, do 
 you ? You don't want Midget and Mollie and 
 little Annie to — to go the way poor Angela 
 Ann did, do you ? Isn't any work that'll 
 keep them fed and clothed and give them a fair 
 chance for happiness worth working at, even if 
 you don't happen to like it ?" 
 
 Mikey hung his head and made no answer. 
 
 "You know," Beth went on, "how bitter it 
 used to make you and Angela, because your pa 
 wouldn't work at what he could get to do. If 
 he had done right, you wouldn't have suffered all 
 you've had to suffer. If he had done right, 
 Angela Ann wouldn't have been where she is 
 to-day." 
 
 Again no answer. 
 
JUST FOLKS 313 
 
 " Is it because you don't feel well, Mikey ? 
 Does it hurt you when you work ?" 
 
 "No'm." 
 
 "Weren't you happy when you were working 
 — before the strike ?" 
 
 By the light of the street lamp they were pass- 
 ing, Beth could see the red spots burning on 
 Mikey's high cheek-bones. 
 
 Weren't you ?" she persisted. 
 Yes'm." 
 
 :c Well, then — " Beth thought she heard some- 
 thing like a stifled sob. "Mikey!" she cried 
 softly, but with unmistakable eagerness, as 
 the light of a great illumination broke in upon 
 her. "Is it — is it Ginger?" 
 
 Mikey nodded. , 
 
 "That was it," Beth told Mary, next day. 
 "He can't forget Ginger. That's awfully pitiful, 
 Mary. I'm going to see the man who hired 
 Mikey before, and tell him a few things, and see 
 if he won't take Mikey back." 
 
 But the man wouldn't. The strike had been 
 peculiarly uncalled for and unjust. Their firm 
 had always treated their drivers with the ut- 
 most fairness and generosity. Yet the drivers, 
 for no grievance of their own, had struck and 
 made the firm a great deal of trouble, cost it a 
 great deal of money. Not one of these ingrates 
 should come back if, to keep their places filled, the 
 
3H JUST FOLKS 
 
 firm had to send an arsenal along with every 
 strike-breaker. 
 
 Beth couldn't blame him, and she said so. 
 "But the pity of Mikey's case remains," she said. 
 
 The man admitted this, and gave her five 
 dollars for Mary Casey. 
 
 "I guess," said Beth, when she had thanked 
 him, "what I'll have to do is to see your barn 
 boss about buying Ginger, so I can present 
 him to some other firm that'll let Mikey drive." 
 
 The man on whom she was calling, laughed. 
 "You're a friend that stops at nothing, aren't 
 you ?" he said. "But I'd let that boy get over 
 his notion — that's the easiest way of all." 
 
 "I don't know about that," little Beth re- 
 plied. "He's had so much to 'get over' in his 
 life, poor Mikey!" 
 
 She hadn't intended this for a fine parting 
 shot, but it stuck in that man's consciousness 
 all day and for many a day. He didn't relent 
 about Mikey, but he sent word to the barn boss : 
 
 "If anybody offers to buy a horse named 
 Ginger, let him go cheap." 
 
 It was a question in Beth's mind whether 
 Mikey would be made the happier by knowing 
 she had tried, and failed, or whether she would 
 better keep the knowledge of her undertaking 
 from him. Thinking she would talk it over with 
 Mary, she went over to Henry Street about that 
 
JUST FOLKS 315 
 
 time on Sunday afternoon when, experience 
 had taught her, Mary was most likely to be 
 alone. 
 
 Mary, meantime, had had an eventful day. 
 That morning she was up betimes, meaning 
 to go to early mass in the basement of the 
 church before "drissy folks" were abroad in 
 their Sunday finery. For more than one reason 
 Mary avoided the later masses ; her rags were 
 small shame to her compared with the more 
 than half-suspicious inquiries of acquaintances 
 as to the whereabouts of Angela Ann. 
 
 "'Tis more lies I'm after tellin'," said poor 
 Mary, "than th' praste kin iver take aff o' me. 
 'N' ag'in I do pinance enough t' kape me busy 
 half me time, an' go t' git me. holy c'munion, 
 I'm not out o' the prisence o 'th' blissed Sacra- 
 ment before I'm havin' t' lie ag'in t' save that 
 poor, silly girl's name !" 
 
 This morning, however, in spite of her early 
 rising and her efforts to get to seven o'clock 
 mass, events conspired to thwart her intentions. 
 Mollie woke up with a headache, and Johnny 
 had to be despatched on a vinegar-borrowing 
 expedition, so that the time-honored application 
 of brown paper soaked in vinegar might be 
 made to the poor little head. Annie cried lustily 
 with a colicky cry, and Mary had to hasten the 
 boiling of tea, that she might have a good, hot 
 cup to soothe her. 
 
316 JUST FOLKS 
 
 It was nine o'clock before Mary could get away ; 
 the last mass in the basement was at nine o'clock. 
 But the Elevation of the Host had been cele- 
 brated before she got there, and she turned 
 disappointedly to the stairs ; she would have to 
 wait for half-past nine mass in the main church. 
 It seemed as if Providence were balking her, 
 but on the stairway she learned the reason why. 
 
 "Ye mus' be sure t' say a spicial prayer on 
 this mass," said one woman who passed her to 
 another, "'tis the first mass this young praste 
 have iver said, an' a blissin' go wid it t' thim that 
 prays wid him." 
 
 Saul on the Damascus road had no more over- 
 whelming sense of arrest and redirection than 
 Mary Casey had, as, trembling with excitement, 
 she reached the top of the stairway. 
 
 "Think o' that now," she told herself, "an' 
 if I had come t' th' airly mass I'd niver 'a' known 
 it!" 
 
 Hardly would her knees uphold her until she 
 could sink into an obscure pew, far back under 
 the gallery. And there, at the tense moment 
 when the silver-toned bell proclaimed commemo- 
 ration of the great lifting-up in suffering, Mary 
 raised her faith-full prayer: "A'mighty God, 
 sind me girl back t' me ! But if it don' be in yer 
 heart t' do that much, make her a good girl 
 wheeriver she be. Fer th' love av Christ, Amin." 
 
 Not often in any lifetime, perhaps, does it 
 
JUST* FOLKS 317 
 
 come to pass that one prays with such sublime 
 assurance of crying straight into the listening ear 
 of Omnipotence that will inevitably keep faith 
 with poor flesh. For nigh on to forty years Mary 
 Casey had listened to reiterations of the old and 
 new Covenants, but they had fallen on sterile 
 ground in her soul. It was the little chance 
 remark about the new priest's first mass, dropping 
 into harrowed and watered soil, that flowered in 
 immediate faith. 
 
 The mass ended and the throngs of worshippers 
 passed out, but Mary sat unheeded and un- 
 heeding in her dim corner, her simple mind grap- 
 pling with the stupendous idea of its Covenant 
 with Heaven. > 
 
 Before she had any realizing sense of time, 
 the church had filled again for high mass. 
 Then the lighting of the great white altar fas- 
 cinated her, and she felt an intense desire to live 
 again through such a moment of assurance as 
 she had lately experienced — to hear that bell 
 ring again, to smell the incense, and to believe 
 that in some wonderful, wonderful way it was all 
 a part of that prayer of hers that Heaven was 
 bound to answer. 
 
 So she stayed on, in her far-away pew, to the 
 remotest corner of which she was crowded as the 
 enormous church filled to its capacity. With the 
 entrance of the preacher into the pulpit, though, 
 
318 JUST FOLKS 
 
 she was conscious of a distinct "let-down." 
 She had never liked sermons ; they dealt with 
 things so formally. Even when the priests made 
 their greatest efforts to be plain-spoken and 
 understandable, she seldom got any personal help 
 from their discourse. They were prone to 
 denunciations of adultery and drunkenness and 
 other sins of which she was innocent, and to 
 vague exhortations looking toward a hereafter on 
 which her imagination had never taken any 
 but the feeblest hold. But what was the priest 
 saying ? Something about a little household 
 that the Lord had loved, and one of its two sisters 
 had gone astray ! 
 
 The woman sitting next to Mary nudged her 
 other neighbor and glanced in the direction of 
 Mary's face, thrust forward so as not to lose a 
 syllable, the tears chasing each other unheeded 
 down its furrows. In her lap Mary's gnarled 
 hands were clasped in painful intensity. 
 
 Over and over, since she was a tiny child in 
 Ireland, she had heard this Catholic rendering 
 of Mary of Bethany's story, but it had never 
 meant anything to her. To-day it meant every- 
 thing. 
 
 She was full of the wonder of it when Beth 
 came, and together the two sat in the "parlie" 
 that was waiting for Angela, and talked of her 
 coming home. 
 
 The shadows grew deeper and deeper as they 
 
JUST FOLKS 319 
 
 talked. The fervor of Mary's faith communi- 
 cated itself to the girl who had lived so much less 
 life than she, and Beth thought she had never 
 lived through such a vivid hour. 
 
 When she rose to go, Mary said, "Wait till 
 I git a light," and went into the kitchen to get 
 the lamp. (She never had oil to spare for the 
 one in the "parlie.") As she lighted the lamp, 
 a sound at the door caused her nearly to drop 
 the light. Hurrying to the back door, she threw 
 it open, and with the lamp in one hand, stood 
 peering out into the black yard. 
 
 "Here, pussy, pussy!" she called. Then, as 
 her call was answered, "My God ! what did I tell 
 ye ? 'Tis the wan-eyed cat !" 
 
 The next morning the postman brought a letter. 
 Mary was not surprised to get it. She could 
 not read it, but she could make out the signature, 
 written in the large, unformed hand wherewith 
 Angela had covered every available space in the 
 days of her brief but laborious apprenticeship 
 to the art of writing. 
 
 With trembling hand Mary tucked the letter 
 in her bosom, hastily got ready herself and 
 Annie, and went over to Beth's. But Beth was 
 gone on her day's rounds, and Mary had to take 
 the letter to her sister Maggie's. Maggie was 
 younger and had enjoyed more educational 
 advantages. She could "r'ade printin'" easily, 
 
320 JUST FOLKS 
 
 and "writin"' fairly well if it hadn't too many 
 flourishes. 
 
 "She says," spelled out Mrs. Kavanagh, 
 "'Dear Ma, I'm at — West Randolph Street 
 I'm sick I'm afraid to go home count of Pa Your 
 Loving daughter Angela Ann Casey.' I'll go 
 wid ye," finished Maggie in the same breath. 
 
 " She haven't heard about her pa !" cried Mary. 
 
 Out of her small store of tawdry finery Maggie 
 lent several articles to make Mary " look more 
 drissy," and while they got ready for their 
 momentous journey, Mary related the events 
 of the day before. 
 
 "I knew," said Maggie, "theer was more in 
 that wan-eyed cat ner what annywan but me an' 
 the fortune-teller belaved." 
 
 The number they sought on West Randolph 
 Street was not far from the fateful Haymarket 
 Square. There was a store on the ground 
 floor, with living-rooms behind. And above, 
 a long flight of oil-cloth-covered stairs led to a 
 "hotel." 
 
 They inquired first in the store, but no one 
 there had ever heard of Angela Ann. Then, 
 with fast-beating hearts, the women mounted to 
 the office of the hotel, an inside room facing the 
 head of the first flight of stairs. The door stood 
 open, and they looked, before entering, into a 
 gas-lighted room furnished with yellow-painted 
 wooden arm-chairs ranged along the walls and 
 
JUST FOLKS 321 
 
 flanked by a sparser row of cuspidors ; and near 
 the door, behind a small desk like a butcher- 
 store cashier's sat the "clerk," chewing vigor- 
 ously and expectorating without accuracy. 
 
 "Yes, she has a room here," he answered to 
 Mary's question, "hall room, rear, third floor." 
 
 "In a minute!" called Angela Ann's voice 
 when Mary had knocked. 
 
 "My God, 'tis hersilf," sobbed Mary, and 
 fell a-weeping violently. 
 
 "Ma !" cried Angela Ann, and threw open the 
 door. She had been in bed when they knocked, 
 and had not waited to put on her clothes when 
 she heard her mother's voice. At the touch 
 of her, the clinging -clasp of her poor, thin, 
 cold little arms, Mary grew hysterical. 
 
 "Don't, Ma, don't," begged Angela. 
 
 "She've grieved hersilf sick over ye," said 
 Maggie, unable to forbear this much of a repri- 
 mand now that the sinner was found. "Iver 
 since ye wint she've been like wan crazy. Come, 
 Mary, now ye've got her, brace up !" 
 
 "Sure, Ma," echoed the girl, "now ye've got 
 me, brace up. I ain't never goin' t' lave ye no 
 more, Ma — honest t' God, I ain't." 
 
 "Wheer ye been?" Mary raised her head 
 and, drawing back from the girl, peered anxiously 
 into her face. "In God's name, Ang'la Ann, 
 wheer you been ? Tell me ye've kep' dacint, 
 girl ; tell me ye've kep' dacint !" 
 
322 JUST FOLKS 
 
 Angela sat down on the dingy, disordered 
 bed and began to cry, hiding her face in her 
 hands. For a long moment the silence, save for 
 her soft sobbing, was profound. Then a low 
 moan escaped Mary, a moan of anguish inexpress- 
 ible, showing how deeply, notwithstanding her 
 resolution of yesterday, she had cherished the 
 hope of her daughter's safety. 
 
 Angela raised her head. The pain in her 
 mother's moan was beyond her comprehension, 
 and she could understand it only as horror 
 and condemnation. 
 
 "Are ye — are ye goin' t' t'row me off?" 
 she cried. 
 
 Mary looked at her in pity that she could ask 
 such a thing. "T'row ye off ? Ah, me girl ! 
 If ye'll on'y stick t' me as long as I'll stick t' you, 
 'tis all I'll ask o' Hivin. 'Tis fer yer sake I was 
 prayin' no harm had come t' ye — not fer mine. 
 Whativer happen t' ye, ye're me Ang'la Ann 
 that I nursed from yer first brith." 
 
 "An' — an' Pa ?" said Angela. 
 
 For a moment, in the joy of seeing her girl 
 and the pain of knowing the girl's innocence 
 was gone, Mary had forgotten Pa. Now, it all 
 came flooding back to her — that culmination 
 in the drama of her life — and the pride of Pa's 
 splendid death suddenly transformed her. 
 
 "Have ye heerd nothin' 'bout yer pa ?" 
 she asked Angela. It did not seem possible 
 
JUST FOLKS 323 
 
 to Mary there was any one who had not heard 
 his fame. 
 
 Angela's bitterness against her pa did not 
 melt at news of his death; it was only when 
 Mary's further descriptions suggested the horror 
 of his sufferings, that Angela's tears began to 
 fall. 
 
 "If yer pa was here," Mary went on, "he'd 
 be fer havin' a tur'ble wingince on the felly that 
 lid ye away." 
 
 Angela Ann smiled grimly, through her tears. 
 "I guess theer's quite a few pas lookin' fer 
 'im," she said, "but they don' never seem t' fin' 
 him." 
 
 "Did he promise t' marry ye ?" asked Mary, 
 anxiously. > 
 
 "He did not! He promised t' make me a 
 primmy donny !" 
 
 "What's that?" 
 
 "'Tis a kin' of actress that wear tights an' 
 sing. I'm after r'adin' in books how gran' they 
 be, an' in the papers it tell how all the swell 
 fellies do be runnin' after 'em with diming neck- 
 lusses an' marryin' of 'em. An' 'tis all a lie!" 
 she finished, shrilly. 
 
 "Ye see!" Mary could not refrain from re- 
 minding her. "I tol' ye thim theayters was all 
 wrong. We kind o' t'ought it might be thim 
 that got ye, an' yer pa wint t' see this here 
 Halberg, whin we foun' the card out o' yer 
 
324 JUST FOLKS 
 
 pocke' book. But he said he niver hear tell 
 o' ye." 
 
 "Did Pa go theer ?" questioned Angela Ann, 
 eagerly. She was all interest to know how the 
 search for her had been carried on. "An' was 
 my pitcher in the papers ?" 
 
 "Yer pitcher was not in the papers," her 
 mother answered, "an' not wan but yer own 
 kin know yeVe been missin' ; so ye kin hoi' up 
 yer hid an' look th' world in the face. An' 
 may God fergive yer mother th' lies she've toP 
 t' save yer name !" 
 
 Thus encouraged about the future, Angela 
 seemed inclined to tell about the past. 
 
 Yes, it had been Halberg, she admitted. A 
 young fellow she used to meet up at Peter the 
 Greek's had taken her to a couple o' shows and 
 asked her how she'd like to be a "primmy 
 donny." And when she said she would, he had 
 taken her to see Halberg. Halberg "engaged" 
 her. He told her not to say anything to her 
 folks about her new job until she could send 
 home her first week's pay and surprise them. 
 And she "needn't bring no clothes along," be- 
 cause the "company" would furnish her with 
 what she needed. 
 
 "Did they?" interrupted Maggie, breath- 
 lessly eager. 
 
 "They did!" said Angela, her pallid cheeks 
 flushing at the recollection. She had a strange 
 
JUST FOLKS 325 
 
 feeling toward her mother and aunt ; partly she 
 felt scorn of their uncomprehendingness, and 
 partly she felt shame and could not think how 
 to tell them what things had befallen her. 
 
 She had been sent out of town, down to those 
 same soft-coal regions of Illinois where her pa 
 had met his death. And the "director" of the 
 "company" had tried to teach her a few tricks 
 of dancing and singing. They went from town 
 to town and "performed" in the saloons. And 
 after a while, Angela fell sick and was abandoned 
 by the rest. Then a foul-tongued, soft-hearted 
 woman whose husband kept the saloon where 
 Angela lay ill, was touched by the girl's exceed- 
 ing distress and let her stay there until she re- 
 covered and earned enough money, by lamp- 
 filling and dishwashing and like chores, to pay 
 her way home. 
 
 "'You better go back t' yer ma — that's 
 wheer you better go,' that woman says to me; 
 an' Sata'd'y mornin' she bundled me off. But 
 I was scared to go home right t' wanst, till I 
 seen how it was goin' t' be — so I come here. 
 An' I have been awful sick-like iver since I come." 
 
 "Why, in Hivin's name!" Maggie broke in, 
 "did ye niver sind yer ma a line before, t' say 
 ye were alive ? Ye needn' 'a' tol wheer ye was, 
 but ye could 'a' said ye were in th' land o' th' 
 livin', surely ?" 
 
 "I was 'shamed," whimpered Angela. "I 
 
326 JUST FOLKS 
 
 t'ought ye wouldn' keer wheer I was, whin I 
 wasn' doin' daycint."" 
 
 "T'ink o' that, now !" cried Mary. "That's 
 all a girl do know about her ma ! Whin yer a 
 mother yersilf ye'll know better, an' not till 
 thin, I suppose." 
 
 There was a great deal about Angela's story 
 that her mother could not understand, and 
 there were some things about it that Angela 
 herself did not understand. But little Beth, 
 "putting two and two together," saw some things 
 very clearly. 
 
 "Mary," she said, sitting in the parlie and 
 hearing the story of Angela Ann, "that proves 
 to me what I've suspected for a long time. I 
 didn't know about O. Halberg and his end of it, 
 but I've been pretty sure that Peter the Greek 
 was a bad man, and that he was using his store 
 as a place to lure young girls. That fellow that 
 was so 'nice' to poor little Angela, was what is 
 called a cadet. He makes it his business to fill 
 girls' heads with flighty notions and to lead 
 them away from home. This is a pretty foxy 
 game — this particular one — but don't you 
 see ? Peter draws the girls there with his candy, 
 and soda, and fruit, and nuts, his electric piano, 
 and all that. He has one or two of these cadets 
 who treat the girls to ice-cream and flatter them 
 and take them to cheap shows. Then, when 
 they get the girl's confidence, they take her to 
 
JUST FOLKS 327 
 
 Halberg, and he sells her or rents her to some 
 wretch who takes her out of town and into a 
 life of the — the vilest shame. Do you see, 
 Angela?" 
 
 Angela nodded. 
 
 "Now," Beth went on, "I've thought for 
 some time that this Peter was doing something 
 of the sort. In my work, I trace a lot of trouble 
 to his store. But I've never* been able to get a 
 good case on him. This is a Greek ward, you 
 know — the Greeks are voters — they stand 
 together, solid. It's hard to prove anything 
 against one of them. They lie for one another 
 — like the Italians — and not against one an- 
 other like the Irish and the Jews. And the 
 police, controlled by politics, don't like to prose- 
 cute a solid mass of voters — see ? Now, I 
 didn't know what Peter was doing with girls he 
 lured away, but I have felt sure he was luring 
 them. If you would prosecute — " 
 
 "Sure I'll prosecute!" cried Mary, her eyes 
 flashing fury. 
 
 "Wait!" said Beth. "To prosecute, you 
 must testify — you must tell about Angela — 
 she must tell about herself — and you can't 
 keep it secret — can't keep it out of the papers." 
 
 Mary's expression changed — protest was in 
 every line of her countenance. "I couldn' do 
 that!" she murmured. "I'd niver do that." 
 
 "Not to save some other mothers' girls ?" 
 
328 JUST FOLKS 
 
 Mary shook her head. "I'd like to," she 
 said, "but I couldn' — fer Ang'la's sake." 
 
 "I don' keer, Ma !" cried Angela. "I'd just 
 as lieves tell !" 
 
 Her mother looked at her in astonishment, 
 "Ye don' know what yer sayin'," she declared. 
 
 "An' you don' know what they're doin' t' 
 girls !" was Angela's retort. 
 
 Beth, quivering with fury against the de- 
 stroyers of girlhood, pleaded with Mary — in 
 vain. Angela Ann, smarting under the sense of 
 her unspeakable wrongs, pleaded too. 
 
 "I can't," said Mary, weeping piteously. "I 
 can't do't!" 
 
 So Beth went away. She usually went and 
 came between Maxwell and Henry Streets by 
 way of Waller Street, the eastern, as Blue Island 
 Avenue was the western, boundary of Henry 
 Street. But to-day as she reached the sidewalk 
 level, she turned toward Blue Island Avenue. 
 Interest in Angela's return was still so fresh 
 that none of the small Caseys offered, as was 
 their custom, to accompany Beth "a piece" of 
 her way home. 
 
 Peter the Greek knew her enmity — knew she 
 had warned girls against going to his store and 
 parents against letting their girls go. He would 
 not receive her call affably, she was well aware. 
 But the resolution of her short, quick steps never 
 faltered. 
 
JUST FOLKS 329 
 
 Peter's store was not splendid, except by- 
 comparison with other shops "on Blue Islan'." 
 Halsted Street had a dozen Greek stores, be- 
 tween Twelfth Street and Madison, that made 
 Peter Demapopulos's look very small and dingy 
 indeed. But Peter was doing very well, finan- 
 cially, and had not — for a Greek so recently 
 advanced from basket-peddling to shop-keeping 
 — a weary while to wait between his present 
 and the dreamed-of day when he should own a 
 gaudy store on Halsted Street. Even now, his 
 stock showed that genius for display where- 
 with the Greek seems always able to invest his 
 colorful commodities. And there were the soda- 
 fountain, the electric piano, the ice-cream tables, 
 the candies — more than enough to lure Angela 
 from that back kitchen ! 
 
 In the front of the store, as Beth entered, a 
 boy was buying cocoanut taffy. Peter was not 
 visible. The Greek who was in charge, called 
 himself Peter's brother; Peter said he was no 
 relation. Beth was familiar with this disputed 
 relationship, and indifferent to the truth about 
 it. 
 
 "Where's Peter?" she asked, when the cus- 
 tomer was gone. 
 
 "Down town !" said "brother" so promptly 
 that Beth was sure he lied. 
 
 But there was nothing to do, then, but go 
 away. 
 
XVII 
 
 In the Nineteenth Ward were one or two 
 Settlements so much smaller than Hull House 
 as seldom to be heard of beyond the immediate 
 neighborhood. In one of them, Beth Tully re- 
 ceived, once a week, the obligatory visits of her 
 probation boys. 
 
 Her visits to their homes were seldom wholly 
 satisfactory, for the boys themselves were not 
 often to be found. Either they were "workin'," 
 or they were "to school," or they were "out 
 playin'," far be it from the mothers to know 
 where. But Monday nights when Beth brought 
 them together at the Settlement, she was able 
 to gather — not in confession so much as in 
 gossip — a good deal of information about her 
 charges. 
 
 On the night of that eventful Monday when 
 Angela Ann returned, Beth was at her post by 
 the big table in the main hall. She always made 
 the occasion as social as possible, so the boys 
 would like to come. And they came here more 
 readily than to any other place. 
 
 To-night, the usual activities of the smaller 
 Settlements — which are the same as those of 
 the larger, only they don't go so far and are 
 
 330 
 
JUST FOLKS 331 
 
 not so numerous — were in fairly full blast. 
 There was bowling below-stairs, a choral society 
 in the Guild Hall, dancing in the big room where 
 babies were " kindergartened " by day; type- 
 writers were clicking in the commercial school- 
 room, sewing-machines whirring in the dress- 
 making class, and awful, groaning noises proceed- 
 ing from a distant, third-story room where a 
 brass band was in process of trying to be a band, 
 although at present every bit of brass seemed 
 rankly individualistic. 
 
 Beth's manner with her probation boys was a 
 delightful study. They felt her youth, her sym- 
 pathy, and they lost when with her as much of 
 their self-consciousness as boys ever lose in the 
 presence of any one. But they never got fa- 
 miliar, never lost a certain awe of her not as 
 she was but as she could so easily become if a 
 fellow overestimated her sentiment and under- 
 estimated her lightning-quick intelligence. 
 
 For instance, there was Angelo Vacca who 
 was struggling — not too hard — with a gypsy 
 spirit which loved any chance shelter better 
 than a home and any game of chance better 
 than the best steady income that ever drove a 
 body mad with its dead certainty. Angelo sold 
 papers, nominally, and kept two very bright 
 black eyes wide open for "better" business. In 
 order to insure his return home nights and his 
 fair division of spoils with his widowed "mud- 
 
332 JUST FOLKS 
 
 der," Beth had devised a scheme whereby Mrs. 
 Vacca was to put down on a paper each night 
 the sum Angelo took to her, and to make oppo- 
 site to it a mark X, to signify that Angelo had 
 slept at home. Once a week this paper was pre- 
 sented to Beth's scrutiny. 
 
 "Forty-seven cents," she would read aloud 
 from the paper bearing what Angelo called "me 
 mudder's slignature," "fifty-three cents, nineteen 
 cents — how's that, Angelo ?" 
 
 "Bad day!" Angelo would say promptly, 
 "got stuck." 
 
 Beth knew that if Angelo ever "got stuck" 
 with papers it was because he was trying an- 
 other "line" unsuccessfully. Evidently his 
 "mudder" had protested, too, because next day 
 the record was sixty-one cents. 
 
 Then, "Dollar-nineteen ! How's that, An- 
 gelo?" 
 
 "Fine day!" answered Angelo, smiling en- 
 gagingly and showing all his white teeth. "Work 
 very hard." 
 
 Beth knew he had never earned a dollar- 
 nineteen selling papers ; and that if he had 
 given his "mudder" so much, it was gambler 
 generosity, arguing a much larger sum retained. 
 But she kept her own counsel, feeling sure that 
 some of the other boys would throw light on 
 the dark places of Angelo's history. Sure 
 enough ! Herman Rubovitz had failed to take 
 
JUST FOLKS 333 
 
 home any wages on a certain pay day. His pa 
 had beat him and his ma had sent word "by de 
 p'leece lady." Herman tried to exonerate him- 
 self by pleading the temptation, nay, the forcible 
 insistence of certain bad boys that he "shoot 
 craps." What boys ? Well, August Ankowitzer, 
 and Tony Kapusta, and Johnny Mishtawa, and 
 Angelo Vacca. 
 
 Next time a suspiciously large amount ap- 
 peared above Mrs. Vacca's "slignature," Beth's 
 blue eyes lifted from the paper and fastened 
 themselves with terrible searchingness on Angelo's 
 face. 
 
 "Hand 'em over !" she commanded briefly. 
 
 "What'm?" asked Angelo, wide-eyed with 
 surprise. > 
 
 "The dice — the bones!" was her laconic 
 order. 
 
 Angelo "dug down" with a grimy hand and 
 produced them. 
 
 "Now the loaded ones !" said Beth, matter- 
 of-factly. 
 
 "Dewhat?" 
 
 "The loaded ones ! You don't win money like 
 that playin' on the level." 
 
 Angelo looked a minute at the stern face of 
 the little "p'leece lady," then dug into another 
 pocket and handed over the loaded dice. 
 
 "Gee !" he remarked admiringly, as he threw 
 them down, "but yer a wise guy !" 
 
334 JUST FOLKS 
 
 "Humph!" said Beth, loftily, as if that 
 were a very trifling exhibition of her occult 
 powers. 
 
 This Monday evening, Hart Ferris was there 
 
 — as he often was — to wait for her and go, 
 perhaps, for a little car ride after hep work was 
 done. She had tried to get him at the office, 
 during the afternoon, to tell him that Angela 
 Ann was found, but had not succeeded in find- 
 ing him. 
 
 Ferris came into the hall of the Settlement 
 while some of the last of the boys were report- 
 ing to Beth. He thought he could tell, as he 
 sat watching her, that something out of the 
 ordinary had happened ; but maybe it was only 
 after he heard that he remembered having felt 
 that way. 
 
 When the last boy was gone, Beth drew a 
 sigh of mingled weariness and relief. Then she 
 looked up at Ferris, standing over her. 
 
 Beth was not one of those who waste time, 
 when about to disclose news, with asking: 
 "What do you suppose?" and waiting for a 
 needless assurance : "I can't guess." Her direct 
 ways had nothing to do with such dillydallying 
 
 — unless she was obviously mischievous and 
 teasing. 
 
 "Angela Ann has come home !" she said. 
 
 "She has ? Where was she ?" 
 
 Beth told him ; told him, too, how Angela 
 
JUST FOLKS 33S 
 
 had got there. She was in the midst of telling 
 him about it when Mary Casey came in. 
 
 "Why, Mary!" said Beth. She read in 
 Mary's face that this was no casual call, and if 
 she had not so read, first thought would have 
 reminded her that on no ordinary errand would 
 Mary have left home this evening of Angela 
 Ann's return — not even to go down town to her 
 scrubbing. 
 
 Mary misinterpreted Beth's surprise. "I ain' 
 workin' this avenin'," she explained ; "I couldn'." 
 
 "Of course you couldn't," Beth agreed. 
 
 "I — I don' t'ink you understan'," Mary 
 went on, falteringly. "It isn' 'count o' Ang'la 
 comin' home — not jest. I couldn' afford t' 
 stay home jest fer that — me bein' the on'y wan 
 of us wid an income, these days. It's — it's — " 
 She looked at Ferris, and then appealingly at 
 Beth. 
 
 "He knows, Mary," said Beth, gently, "but 
 if you'd rather he would go away — " 
 
 Mary seemed to hesitate for a moment, as if 
 trying to decide. Then, "No, he better stay," 
 she said, "he'll understan'." She glanced about 
 the Settlement hall, to see if there were any one 
 else in sight, and having satisfied herself that 
 there was no danger of being overheard, she drew 
 closer to Beth and Ferris, and began : — 
 
 "After you wint away to-day, Miss Beth, an' the 
 childern got t'rough rubberin' at Ang'la Ann an' 
 
336 JUST FOLKS 
 
 wint back t 9 theer play, Ang'la got talkin' 
 more free-like — 'bout what she'd been t'rough, 
 I mane." Here Mary's face began to burn with 
 crimson shame. "Theer was a lot she tried 
 t' till me that I couldn't understan' — seem like 
 it was clear beyon' my way o' t'inkin'. But 
 Mikey — he was theer an' heerd 'er — he — must 
 'a' understood, fer I niver see anny wan look the 
 way he looked. He didn' let hem ner haw out o' 
 him — you know his way ! But thim rid spots on 
 his cheeks burned like two flames that's fanned ; 
 an' theer was a look in the eyes of him that froze 
 me more'n all Ang'la said. Pritty soon he put on 
 his hat an' wint away — widout a word ; an' 
 I ain' seen him since. Whin he was gon', Ang'la 
 an' me talked more 'bout what you said — me 
 feelin' I couldn' stan' t' do it an' all the while 
 somethin' in me tellin' me I couldn' stan' not t 9 
 do it. 'Jest l'ave me t' t'ink till avenin',' I says — 
 knowin' I had t' decide whither we was t' till 
 lies t' ivrywan about wheer Ang'la was, or t' 
 till the trut' an' help save other girls. An' 
 come avenin', I wint over t' the church t' set a 
 while in the quiet an' say me prayers an' ask 
 A'mighty God t' sind me some sign. I flit like 
 that man in the Bible I'm after hearin' preached 
 about, wan time — I t'ink 'twas Abraham. He 
 was goin' t' kill his bye, t' show his fait* in the 
 Lord — an' whin he wasn' wan minute from 
 havin' it done, the Lord told him niver t' min' — 
 
JUST FOLKS 337 
 
 sure he could see he mint t' do it, an' that was 
 enough — a sheep'd do instid. I — I dunno 
 what made that come into me min', but I t'ought 
 mebbe if I could be willin' t' sacrifice Ang'la, 
 if I could mane that well, I'd git a sign from 
 God A'mighty that he'd save thim other girls wid- 
 out makin' me put the black mark o' shame 
 on mine. Was that wrong ? I prayed an' I 
 prayed, but I couldn' git no feelin' that it'd 
 be all right agin I didn' do it. So thin I done 
 the stations o' the Cross, an' I raymimbered 
 how the blissed Saviour prayed that same way, 
 too ; but it couldn' be, an' he wint on t' death 
 t' save the world. It's bitterer'n death t' me — 
 but I got t' do it!" 
 
 Ferris had turned away to hide the emotion 
 he could not control. Beth's tears were falling 
 furiously. But Mary Casey, past the point of 
 tears, was dry-eyed. Dull red burned on the 
 high cheek-bones of her thin face; and the 
 majesty that sublime acquiescence gives was in 
 the poise of her toil-bent figure. 
 
 The crashing thud of balls in the bowling alley 
 continued without ceasing; the shuffling of 
 dancing feet, the pounding out of ragtime 
 from the gymnasium piano, the repeated false 
 starts of the Caruso (formerly De Reszke) 
 Society, the- whirring and clicking and tooting, 
 were in full activity; "the reclamation of the 
 masses" was going forward vociferously. But 
 
338 JUST FOLKS 
 
 only Beth and Ferris knew that in the Settle- 
 ment's well-nigh deserted entrance hall, a poverty- 
 ridden woman who could not read her name/was 
 making for humanity a bigger sacrifice than 
 humanity would ever comprehend. 
 
 "Mary," said Beth when she could command 
 herself to speak, "you — you are a great woman ! 
 I — when I think of you, Mary, dear, I can 
 only think how God must love you — how — 
 how proud of you He must be !" 
 
 But such was the greatness of Mary that she 
 could not understand. "D'ye t'ink He knows 
 I've tried?" she begged wistfully. And then 
 her tears came. 
 
 There was time, then, for only a brief conference 
 about what should be done to-morrow to begin 
 the prosecution of those who had entrapped 
 Angela. Then Mary, unwilling to stay too long 
 away from home, said she must go. But before 
 she went, she wanted to see the Head Resident 
 for a minute, about some work she was to do at 
 the Settlement that week. 
 
 While Mary was gone, Beth and Ferris talked 
 rapidly, planning a campaign of action. They 
 were in the midst of it when the street-door was 
 rather violently flung open, and a gaunt youth, 
 breathing hard as if pressed in pursuit, came 
 into the hall. It was Mikey ! 
 
 Beth had tried to interest Mikey in some of the 
 
JUST FOLKS 339 
 
 Settlement activities. It was not an easy under- 
 taking, but Mikey had consented to come a few 
 times, especially on Monday nights, when he 
 knew Beth was there. It was late, to-night, 
 though, for any of the things Mikey ever cared 
 to do at the Settlement ; and he had about him an 
 air so different from his usual doggedness as to 
 be quite startling. 
 
 "Mikey !" cried little Beth, jumping to her feet. 
 
 The sound of her voice seemed to rouse Mikey ; 
 he was like one who had fled thither in a night- 
 mare and now, waking slowly, could not remem- 
 ber why he had come. 
 
 M I — I — is it too late ? " he began to stammer, 
 backing toward the door. 
 
 There was a wild light in his eyes, such as 
 Beth had never seen there before. Inwardly, 
 she quailed before it ; but there was no irresolution 
 in her manner as she stepped quickly up to him 
 and said : — 
 
 "Have you been drinking, Mikey ?" It was 
 her fear and Mary's that in the idleness of the 
 strike Mikey would "take to drink." 
 
 "No'm." Mikey's sullen manner was return- 
 ing. 
 
 "Fighting?" As often as they had discussed 
 the strike — she and Mikey — they had agreed 
 that the one thing a man that loved his union 
 must not do was to bring discredit on it by any 
 deed of violence. 
 
34° JUST FOLKS 
 
 "No'm. 
 
 ?> 
 
 " Then what — ? Mikey ! What's the matter 
 with your coat — your hands ?" 
 
 "Aw, nothin' !" cried Mikey, impatiently. 
 And, jerking open the door, he was gone. 
 
 "Wasn' that my Mikey?" Mary Casey 
 had returned just in time to see the boy lurch 
 out. 
 
 "Yes. Before I had a chance to tell him you 
 were here, he went away again." 
 
 "What'd he want ? Was he huntin' me?" 
 
 " I don't know — I started to ask him, and 
 he went without answering. He seemed ex- 
 cited—" 
 
 Mary looked anxious. "I'll hurry an' come 
 up wid him," she said, starting for the door. 
 As she reached out to open it, it was opened 
 from without, and a small boy of the neigh- 
 borhood rushed past her, wide-eyed with ex- 
 citement. 
 
 "Peter de Greek is murdered in his store!" 
 he cried, as he sped through the hall, intent on 
 creating sensations in each separate assembly at 
 the Settlement. 
 
 Mary's knees trembled — she swayed — and 
 Ferris caught her. Beth dropped back weakly 
 into her chair. For a moment, each one of the 
 three avoided the others' eyes. Then Mary 
 staggered to her feet. 
 
JUST FOLKS 341 
 
 "What' re ye goin' t' do ?" she asked ; and her 
 tone was a challenge. Refusing Ferris's con- 
 tinued support, she stood across the doorway 
 as if to intercept pursuit of her boy. 
 
 "Do ?" Beth echoed. "Is there anything to 
 do?" 
 
 Mary seemed reassured by Beth's dazed answer. 
 "Sure there is not!" she declared. "We dunno 
 what happened, at all, an' 'tis no place av ours 
 t' say annythin'." 
 
 Then Beth began to comprehend. "You may 
 be sure I shan't say anything, until we know 
 more," she said. 
 
 "An' him ?" nodding toward Ferris. "Thim 
 that write fer papers is awful keen fer news o' 
 blood." 
 
 Beth looked appealingly at Ferris. 
 
 "I can't stop what comes to light," he said. 
 "I may be forced to — " 
 
 "What could force you — ?" 
 
 The sound of voices made Beth jump to her 
 feet. "The thing for all three of us to do," 
 she said, " is to get out of here, quick, before people 
 come here discussing the murder and asking 
 questions." 
 
 Out in the street it seemed more possible to 
 think. 
 
 "Mary," said Beth, "unless Mikey was seen, 
 there's nothing to bring suspicion on him as the 
 — the one who may have killed the Greek. 
 
342 JUST FOLKS 
 
 It isn't as if it were tomorrow night, after we 
 had made the charge against the Greek. Now, 
 nobody knows but us ; and we — " 
 
 " Ain' goin' t' till," Mary broke in ; and there 
 was desperate defiance in the way she said it. 
 
XIX 
 
 Beth and Ferris walked home with Mary, 
 partly because they hated to leave her alone 
 in her terrible anxiety, and partly because they 
 felt they must know if Mikey had gone home. 
 
 "Perhaps I just thought he seemed excited," 
 Beth said; "perhaps it was what you had been 
 telling me, that made me think of it And I 
 suppose he left, that way, because I asked him 
 questions." She dared not tell Mary what she 
 had thought she saw on Mikey's hands and coat. 
 
 Mary made no reply; she dared not hope as 
 much. 
 
 "If he's not here," she said, when they came 
 to the top of her flight of stairs, "I'll come 
 right back an' let ye know. If I don' come back 
 ye'll know 'tis all right." 
 
 When she had gone down the creaking steps 
 and disappeared in the blackness below, Beth 
 and Ferris had their first opportunity to speak 
 what was on their minds. 
 
 "I don't see," Beth began, quaking nervously, 
 "how I can stand it for Mary, for Mikey, for all 
 of us, if he has done this thing. Not that I 
 think it's any shame to rid the world of that 
 Greek! But the Law will hold it criminal — 
 
 343 
 
344 JUST FOLKS 
 
 and what we'll have to go through, makes me 
 sick at heart to think about. 
 
 " I won't let you go through it ! There are 
 limits to what I'll see you stand. You'll just 
 have to — " 
 
 Beth sighed impatiently. "Don't be silly — 
 please ! " she entreated wearily. " If Mary and 
 Mikey have it to go through, what can keep 
 it from weighing like lead on me ?" 
 
 Mary was gone so long, they began to hope. 
 But presently her step was heard, heavy, on the 
 stairs ; she was dragging herself with difficulty 
 to the sidewalk level. 
 
 " He haven't come," she whispered, " an' I 
 dassent l'ave the childern know what fear is in 
 me heart." 
 
 "If he doesn't come home to-night, will you 
 send one of the children over to tell me, first 
 thing in the morning?" Beth asked. "And 
 meanwhile, Mr. Ferris and I will go over to 
 Blue Island Avenue, and see if we can find 
 out there, or at Maxwell Street Station, if any 
 suspicion points to Mikey. If they're after him, 
 we'll hurry back and tell you. If we don't come 
 back, you may know that — so far, at least — 
 they haven't suspected him." 
 
 Over on the Avenue, a curious crowd was col- 
 lected as close to the store of Peter the Greek 
 as the police guard would permit. Backed up 
 to the curb was the patrol wagon, awaiting the 
 
JUST FOLKS 34S 
 
 grewsome burden for the morgue. An officer 
 Beth knew was standing beside the wagon steps, 
 and of him she inquired, as casually as she could, 
 about the murder. 
 
 "Can't make out much about it, so far," 
 he told her. "It was a knife affair — " Beth 
 shuddered when she thought of Mikey's hands. 
 "An' they're quiet, you know. There was people 
 in the store, gettin' soda and candy and ice- 
 cream — quite a few of them. That fella that 
 says he's Peter the Greek's brother was workin' 
 the fountain. He run out o' somethin', an' Peter 
 went back to that place behind the partition, 
 where they unpacked fruit an' kept supplies, t' 
 git it. He didn' come back, an' he didn' come 
 back ; so the brother — or whatever he is — 
 went to get the stuff himself. An' there this 
 Peter lay, with his heart stuck through. The 
 electric piano was goin' so loud they didn' even 
 hear 'im fall. An' the back door was standin' 
 open." 
 
 "Does the brother — or whoever he is — 
 know anybody who — who might have done it ?" 
 
 "He ain' sayin' anythin'. Them Greeks is 
 terrible close-mouthed, an' they lie fer one an- 
 other like a pack o' thieves. He may have 
 stuck the knife in, hisself. That bunch o' 
 boys an' girls he called in when he foun' the body 
 — as he says — wouldn' have sense enough 
 among 'em t' know if he acted most surprised or 
 
346 JUST FOLKS 
 
 guilty. Anyway we'll have to hold him till we 
 know." 
 
 "You have no other clew ?" 
 
 "Not yet — that I've heard of. It on'y 
 happened a half an hour ago." 
 
 Still further to satisfy Beth, Ferris went into 
 Maxwell Street Station before they returned to 
 Liza's. His newspaper connection, and his fre- 
 quent presence in the vicinity where Miss Tully 
 lived — both well known to the Maxwell Street 
 force — gave him abundant excuse for an inter- 
 est in the murder. What Beth hoped they might, 
 at this propitious time, find out, was whether 
 the police had any definite ideas about Peter 
 as employed in the traffic in girls. They had ! 
 
 "I guess he was a pretty tough citizen, all 
 right," the desk sergeant opined to Ferris, 
 "and got only part of what was comin' to 
 him." 
 
 "How's that?" 
 
 "Oh, he was mixed up in a dirty trade, without 
 doubt. We ain't never had no specific charge 
 against him — them charges is hard to get — 
 but I s'pose some poor devil has tried to avenge 
 his girl and," confidentially, "I kind o' hope 
 he gets away with it." 
 
 "That settles our case," remarked Beth as 
 they went on their way. "We can't prosecute 
 Peter, now — he's gone where his case is known. 
 And any mention of him in connection with 
 
JUST FOLKS 347 
 
 Angela Ann would bring suspicion at once on 
 Mikey." 
 
 "Don't you think Mikey did it ?" 
 
 "I'm afraid he did." 
 
 "Then — why, Beth! You're an officer of 
 the Law." 
 
 Beth winced. "I know I am," she said, "but 
 I'm not going to say anything to put Mikey in 
 jeopardy. That Greek is well made way with — 
 the world is better without him. Mikey has 
 never had a chance in this world ; do you think 
 I'm going to put his neck in a noose and see 
 him sent out of the world, for driving a knife 
 into the black heart of that Greek ? Besides, I 
 don't know that he did it. Suppose he didn't ! 
 Suppose I tell the police what I surmise, and 
 they get him — and don't get anybody else. 
 You're a newspaper man ; you know how such 
 things go ! And if he did do it, for Angela, I'll 
 have more hope of Mikey than I've ever had 
 before — poor, sluggish, unawakened Mikey. If 
 he cared that much, he has more in him than I 
 dared to hope." 
 
 Ferris listened to her without trying to in- 
 terrupt. When she had quite evidently come 
 to the end of her plea — pleading with herself, 
 he knew, as much as with him — he said : — 
 
 "Beth, you were hired to uphold the law, 
 not to interpret it. Judges decide what law 
 ought to be; you belong only to that arm of 
 
348 JUST FOLKS 
 
 law and order which enforces statutes. You 
 have no right whatever to decide what you think 
 the law ought to be ; you are under oath to en- 
 force it as it is. This is the thing I've always 
 told you would prove to you, some day, that 
 women have no business fooling with the law. 
 You are all sentimentalists. It isn't in you to 
 have respect for the law as an abstract thing, 
 to care above everything to maintain it in its 
 integrity. Your pity is greater than your sense 
 of justice; you want to make an exception of 
 each individual case. There'd be no law, if you 
 had your way ! You'd make and unmake it for 
 each separate offender. Natural law ought to 
 teach you better. Nature makes no exceptions. 
 You have neither legal nor logical authority to 
 interpret the law for yourself ; you are sworn to 
 uphold it as it has made itself out of generations 
 of demonstrated expediency." 
 
 Beth's eyes flashed. "I'm tired of expedi- 
 ence!" she cried hotly. "I'm tired of stand- 
 ing by and seeing Mary, and others like her, 
 stagger under unbearable burdens of woe, and 
 hearing you, and others like you, talk about the 
 law and about the hand of God. I believe God 
 hates such hypocrisy ! I believe He is sick at 
 heart because we stand around and prate about 
 expediency, and don't rush in, mad with the 
 desire to ease suffering. I'd be ashamed to 
 think about God, if I turned against Mary now !" 
 
JUST FOLKS 349 
 
 Ferris was very quiet — his tones were omi- 
 nously low and even, betokening the grip he 
 was exercising. "If you perjure yourself," he 
 replied, "you will only delay Mary's heartbreak. 
 For, if Mikey did what you fear he did, and you 
 shield him, and he goes free, will his respect for 
 the law be very great ? Will an experience like 
 this help him to be a good citizen, to be very 
 mindful not to break other laws ? You know it 
 won't ! Will it be good for Johnny — for 
 Dewey — ?" 
 
 "Talk !" interrupted Beth, sharply, "all talk ! 
 If I tell on him, what kind of a citizen will he 
 be ? If he is hanged, or sent to prison for life, 
 will Johnny and Dewey be better for it ?" 
 
 They were at Beth's door, now, and she 
 seemed about to enter abruptly, without saying 
 good night. 
 
 "Wait a minute !" Ferris commanded. Beth 
 hesitated in the doorway. "You have decided 
 for yourself," he said, "but you cannot decide 
 for me." 
 
 "What do you mean ?" 
 
 "I mean that I know as much as you do — 
 saw and heard the same evidence. If the ques- 
 tion comes to you, you may lie — " 
 
 "But you won't !" 
 
 "No, I don't believe I shall. I'm as sorry 
 for Mary, for Mikey, as you are ; but I can't see 
 that it is right — " 
 
3 so JUST FOLKS 
 
 Beth slammed the door. 
 
 Everything was still in Liza's rooms, and Beth 
 was intensely grateful that she could slip into 
 bed without being questioned. 
 
 Of course she could not sleep. Weariness 
 closed her heavy eyes, but no merciful uncon- 
 sciousness would come. Over and over and 
 over in her mind, she turned the possibilities. 
 Like Mary, she hoped for a sign. But none 
 came. 
 
 As soon as she could get a cup of coffee, in 
 the morning, she was away to Henry Street, 
 without waiting for word from Mary. 
 
 Mikey was not there. 
 
 Crafty in the defence of her offspring was 
 Mary, like any other natural mother. In the 
 long watches of that dreadful night when she 
 and Angela Ann had sat in the kitchen — strain- 
 ing their ears to hear every footfall on the board 
 walk between the houses, hoping against hope 
 that Mikey would come — Mary had talked in 
 whispers to the girl of what they must do if 
 Mikey did not come. 
 
 "We can't till thim," the mother said nod- 
 ding toward the bedrooms where the children lay 
 asleep. "We wouldn' want t' till this why we 
 t'ink he done it; an' 'tis better annyway fer 
 thim t' know nothin'. Then, agin theer ast 
 quistions they'll nade t' till no lies — which 
 
JUST FOLKS 351 
 
 same is partly fer the sake o' theer souls an' 
 partly because I misdoubt the kin' o' lies they 
 might be able t' till." 
 
 Mary spoke as if appealing to the girl's judg- 
 ment for confirmation ; but it was only the 
 craving of her mother heart for understanding 
 from her child, that made her speak so. For 
 her mind was inflexibly made up to defend 
 Mikey at any cost. 
 
 Angela Ann, however, easily agreed ; it was 
 the menace of her future that she agreed all too 
 easily, bent all too unresistingly to any will 
 stronger than her own — which it was hard for 
 any will not to be. A bit of thistle-drift was 
 Angela; and would have no life "but as the 
 wind listeth." Which made it the more im- 
 perative that she should be kept where only 
 gently favoring winds blow. 
 
 "I'd made up me min' t' till wheer ye'd been, 
 so we could git the hound o' hell that took 
 money fer yer poor little soul," Mary went on, 
 still whispering, "but yer brother have took 
 wingince into his own han's, I'm feared. 'Tis 
 our business, now, t' kape as still as death 
 'bout wheer you been — so's no wan nade sus- 
 pect our Mikey-bye o' doin' it." 
 
 To Beth, when she came to Henry Street 
 about six o'clock in the morning, Mary repeated 
 all this, behind a closed door. 
 
 "There's this about it, Mary," Beth reminded 
 
352 JUST FOLKS 
 
 her, "if they don't suspect Mikey, and don't 
 prosecute any one else — who may be innocent ! 
 — it'll all work out well for Angela's good name. 
 But if they get Mikey and try him, he'll have 
 a chance to get off if it's known what the mur- 
 der was committed for." 
 
 "What d'ye mane?" 
 
 Beth explained. 
 
 "Th' unwritten law, d'ye call it ? I should 
 t'ink it'd be written big in ivry book that tills 
 the law; fer sure 'tis written in the heart of 
 ivry man — ivry rale man — that live." 
 
 Beth thought best not to tell Mary what 
 weight of sentiment there was opposed to the 
 "unwritten law." If she had that to learn in 
 bitter experience, it would not help her any to 
 know about it now; it was better for her to 
 hope that, even if Mikey were caught and tried, 
 he might be gently judged because of the motive 
 for his crime. 
 
 So they agreed that nothing should be said 
 about Angela's experience unless Mikey were 
 brought to trial for the death of the Greek. 
 
 "If they don' git him, will he dare t' come 
 back, by an' by, d'ye t'ink ?" With the weight 
 of worst apprehension lifted, Mary's heart was 
 wistful for her boy's return. 
 
 "That's what's bothering me, Mary dear," 
 Beth answered. "I — I don't like the idea of 
 Mikey hiding from justice — I don't like to 
 
JUST FOLKS 353 
 
 think where he may be or what he may be 
 doing to escape the police. It's an awful life — 
 that dodging. Even if Mikey went to the coun- 
 try — which he wouldn't be likely to do, because 
 he knows so little about country ways — he'd 
 never feel safe ; every time he saw any one look- 
 ing at him, he'd feel sure he was recognized — 
 found out. And a strong character couldn't 
 stand that ; and we know Mikey isn't strong. 
 If he has stayed in the city, or gone out on the 
 road with hoboes, he hasn't a chance for his 
 soul's life. He'd be better off in jail, Mary dear, 
 standing trial like a man for a man's deed, than 
 skulking in such company as he could get into 
 in his present plight." 
 
 "Sure, I niver t'ought o' that !" Mary cried, 
 dazed by the dreadfulness of this alternative. 
 "I dunno what I t'ought he'd be doin', but I 
 niver pictured t' mesilf thim t'ings ye till about. 
 'Tain't as if theer was annywan on top o' God's 
 earth a bye could go to — knockin' on theer door 
 in dead o' night an' sayin' 'L'ave me in an' try 
 t' pertect me, fer though I've done wrong, I 
 mane t' be good.' Theer's no wan that'd under- 
 stan' a bye like that — is theer ?" 
 
 Then it flashed on Beth why Mikey had fled 
 to her ! He believed — not reasoning, doubt- 
 less, but having some dim intuition — that she 
 would understand. And he had come to her in 
 his plight, and she had failed him. Tears 
 
 2A 
 
354 JUST FOLKS 
 
 blinded her, and she hid her face from Mary as 
 from one that she had betrayed. 
 
 "What is it, darlin' ?" the older woman en- 
 treated, kneeling beside the girl and soothing 
 her maternally. " YeVe stood too manny o' me 
 troubles ! 'Tain't in nature you should stan' 
 'em like I kin, not havin' had the practice. 
 Don' cry, Miss Beth dear — t'ings '11 come right, 
 somehow. God do be kapein' of us all, an' 
 He'll do right by thim that niver mint no harm. 
 An' sure, I'm glad 'tis Him that have it all t' do, 
 not me; fer wan minute I'm of wan min', an' 
 the nixt I'm of another. I hope it don' worry 
 God A'mighty — all the diffrunt t'ings I do be 
 prayin' Him t' do ! Sure, 'tis a good t'ing He 
 know His own min' all the while — fer I'm like 
 the mayor o' Lim'rick, I dunno mesilf. All 
 night I'm prayin', wild-like : ' Don't let thim 
 git me bye ! ' An' now me heart is burstin' 
 wid th' prayer that Mikey'll be foun' — to- 
 day!" 
 
 While Mary talked, Beth so far recovered her 
 self-control as to ponder whether she would add 
 to Mary's grief or lighten it, by telling Mary 
 why she wept. It was that sturdy honesty in 
 her which scorned to conceal her own fault, 
 that made her tell ; and it proved, as admissions 
 so made usually do prove, a bond of deeper 
 sympathy between herself and Mary. It is the 
 people who are never willing to be blamed or to 
 
JUST FOLKS 355 
 
 be felt sorry for, who never accomplish real 
 service for others. 
 
 It seemed to Beth that if she, in Mary's place, 
 suddenly realized how terribly a girl, professing 
 the deepest concern for Mikey's welfare, had 
 failed him at the crucial moment of his life, she 
 would turn on that girl scathingly and denounce 
 her for the poor, weak thing she was. But Mary 
 had, apparently, no such impulse — did not even 
 have it to conquer. 
 
 "It would have been gran','' she admitted, 
 "if you could 'a' held 'im — " and there was a 
 wistfulness in her face, in her voice, that almost 
 broke Beth's heart — "but, Saints above! ye 
 couldn' know it then ! Ye didn' know what he 
 had done ; an' if ye had, yer first t'ought would 
 'a' been like mine, — t' lit 'im git away. Don' 
 blame yersilf, Miss Beth dear ! We can't be 
 born knowin' ivryt'ing; 'tis on'y whin we git 
 chance after chance t' l'arn, an' don' do it, that 
 we've anny call fer blame. I'll bet ye, now, 
 that whin the nixt bye come t' ye like Mikey 
 did, ye'll be ready fer 'im ! An' mebbe — God 
 knows — he'll be wan that'll nade ye aven 
 more'n what Mikey did." 
 
 So Beth, who had come hoping to comfort, 
 went away comforted. She had several cases in 
 court that day and she had a lot to do before 
 court time, getting together witnesses and other- 
 wise trying to serve the ends of justice — for the 
 
356 JUST FOLKS 
 
 children. "And oh!" Beth reflected as she 
 went about her work, "it is so hard to know 
 what justice is, for anybody." But her long 
 night's vigil had brought her to this, in a world 
 where law must reign — as law reigns in all 
 the universe — there could be no justice in 
 trying to evade the law. "If we could only 
 know our laws are right!" she felt, "it would 
 be so much easier to insist that they must be 
 upheld at any cost — " nor dreamed, dear little 
 Beth ! that if there is promise of emended laws 
 evolved out of a better understanding of human 
 nature and its limitations and its needs, much of 
 the world's gratitude therefor must go to such as 
 she. 
 
 Her mind was so crowded with things to 
 think about, that she forgot to buy a morning 
 paper. But Ferris 'phoned to her as soon as he 
 thought she had reached the court. 
 
 "They've got Mikey," he said. 
 
 " How do you know ? " 
 
 "Haven't you read the papers ?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Well, they picked him up, down town, within 
 a few minutes after he left the Settlement. He 
 had blood stains on his hands and clothes — you 
 know ! — and he was trying to keep out of sight. 
 And when taken, he could not, or would not, 
 give an account of himself. So they're holding 
 him. He gave a fictitious name — but he'll be 
 
JUST FOLKS 357 
 
 identified, of course, as soon as any one from the 
 John Worthy sees him." 
 
 "How do you know it's Mikey ?" 
 
 "I've seen him. The murder was given me 
 to ' cover, ' because of my known familiarity 
 with the ward and conditions there. As soon 
 as I heard of this 'suspect' that had been taken, 
 I felt sure it was Mikey. He is sullen and won't 
 talk. It's an awful mix-up for me, Beth ! I 
 hate to go against you, to take the matter out 
 of your hands ; but can't you see ? Think of 
 the position you put me in !" 
 
 It was on the tip of Beth's tongue to say: 
 "Tell who he is, and write the whole story for 
 your paper." But something made her forbear. 
 "Wait!" she said, "and I'll come down during 
 the noon recess. Maybe I can get him to 
 confess." 
 
 "That is too late for our paper," he reminded 
 her. 
 
 "I'm sorry, Hart," she answered curtly, 
 "but it is Mikey that I'm thinking of — not the 
 paper — and not you !" 
 
 "And you won't make it a bit easy for me ?" 
 
 Bitter indeed was the reply that rushed to 
 Beth's lips. But she checked it, unsaid, and 
 hung up the receiver. 
 
XX 
 
 At noon, Beth got on the Halsted Street car 
 and went down town. Mikey had been in the 
 Harrison Street Station all night, but was sent 
 over to the County Jail in the morning, after a 
 preliminary " sweating" in which he had refused 
 to give any account of himself, satisfactory or 
 otherwise. 
 
 It was visiting day at the jail, and in the room 
 where the waiting sit the gray gathering was a 
 numerous one. High and white and bare, that 
 room ; and round its sides a nearly continuous 
 wood bench broken only by the door from the 
 street and the opposite door into the jail. Fast- 
 locked, every moment except when some one 
 was passing through, that jail door ! And from 
 behind thick bars of steel in a cage in the upper 
 half of it, a jailer looks on all who come, and 
 listens to their pleas. The place never failed to 
 impress Beth deeply ; but to-day it appealed to 
 her with a new pitifulness. The waiting faces 
 were so gray — with poverty's pallor and with 
 apprehensiveness. The sad-colored livery of 
 poverty was so depressing. Elderly women — 
 making, perhaps, their first call upon a child in 
 
 358 
 
JUST FOLKS 359 
 
 prison — wept silently but uncontrollably ; little 
 girls of eight and ten years, clothed in dun and 
 drab tones, carried baskets of food, copies of 
 cheap magazines, and other little comforts, every 
 one of which would have to be ruthlessly ex- 
 amined before it reached the prisoner for whom 
 it was intended. There were young women 
 there, too — maids and young wives and 
 mothers ; and here and there among them one 
 who carried the flaunting badge of vice. And 
 there were men — oldish men, for the most 
 part — and boys. But, as everywhere where the 
 sad and waiting sit, women were in the majority. 
 
 Beth asked to see the Jailer, and was ad- 
 mitted to his office. 
 
 "Well, well I" he greeted her jovially, "here 
 we are again !" 
 
 He was a big man, and he carried the look of 
 indisputable authority in every pound of his 
 weight, in every move he made ; carried it, too, 
 in every inflection of his voice. He was a man 
 of iron, and proud of it. And he never failed 
 to relish the contrast when wee Beth — fair- 
 haired and childish-looking — presented herself 
 alongside him as "another arm of the law." 
 
 "I tell you," he used to tease her, on the 
 occasions of her rather infrequent visits to the 
 jail, "when the two of us get in combination, 
 sinners had better look out ! " 
 
 Beth liked the Jailer; she respected him. 
 
3 6o JUST FOLKS 
 
 And the Jailer liked Beth ; under all his raillery 
 was real respect for her. He pretended to think 
 she was a weak little sentimentalist; but he 
 knew she could do more with boys than any one 
 else who ever came into the jail. She pretended 
 to think his one delight in life was getting people 
 to lock up ; but she knew there was never any 
 one more glad than he when, with reasonable 
 regard for public safety, he could order the 
 great steel door swung open to let an imprisoned 
 wretch go free. 
 
 "Well," he chuckled, "what white woolly 
 lamb of your acquaintance have we got here 
 to-day — mistaking him for a black sheep ?" 
 
 Beth tried to answer back in kind, but she 
 was so troubled that the effort was a poor one. 
 
 "Why, Officer !" (he always called her "Offi- 
 cer" — it sounded so absurd), "you look un- 
 usually grave — " 
 
 "Do I ? Well, I have to ask you a big favor 
 — and I'm scared." 
 
 "What do you want me to do ? Turn my 
 back and not look while your lamb escapes ? 
 The guards 'd get him !" 
 
 "No — please!" Beth's tone was pleading, 
 and he saw that she was very serious. "You 
 have here a suspect in last night's Greek murder 
 in my ward." 
 
 "I don't know — have we ?" 
 
 "Yes; he was brought here this morning. 
 
JUST FOLKS 361 
 
 He's quite young, I'm told — I think he may 
 be one of my boys. I want to talk with him 
 and I don't want to have to do it through those 
 awful double gratings. What I want to say to 
 him — to ask him — could never be said like 
 that. I want to sit down by him, and talk to 
 him very privately — if he's the boy I think he 
 is. I don't care if you lock us both in a cell, 
 and post a guard at the door to watch — but 
 let me get near that boy !" 
 
 No one knew better than Beth did how much 
 this was to ask. No one knew better than she 
 did, how easily the jail might be demoralized if 
 such breach of necessary discipline were often 
 made. Even with all the watchfulness that was 
 exercised, she knew how "flakes of coke" (co- 
 caine) were smuggled in in magazines, between 
 two pages lightly gummed together; how files 
 and saws could be concealed in bread and in 
 bananas, and escape the detection of any but 
 the most argus-eyed ; how even the double 
 grating of steel, small-meshed and with eighteen 
 inches of space between the screen behind which 
 the prisoner stood and the screen in front of 
 which his visitor was stationed, was not sufficient 
 to keep the ingenious from supplying liquor to 
 a prisoner — by means of a tiny tubing of 
 rubber, one end of which was in a bottle of 
 whiskey in the caller's pocket, and the other end, 
 temporarily stiffened for eighteen inches or so 
 
362 JUST FOLKS 
 
 by a little willow switch, poked through the 
 steel meshes to reach thirsty lips. If, despite 
 steel screens and watchful guards, things like 
 this could be accomplished, it was not to be 
 expected that freer intercourse with a prisoner 
 could be lightly granted. In jail, as elsewhere, 
 those whose merits were above the average and 
 whose intentions were unquestionably good, had 
 to suffer the rigors of the law made for those 
 who were below the average in merit and had 
 intentions unquestionably bad. 
 
 But Beth got her desired opportunity. It 
 was dinner hour. The various squads of prison- 
 ers — divided off, as well as was possible, in 
 grades of depravity and long-continued vicious- 
 ness — were returned from the exercise pens to 
 their cells to be fed. The Jailer found out where 
 the Greek murder suspect was, and ordered that 
 if he had a cell-mate, he was to be transferred 
 temporarily to an unoccupied cell. When this 
 was done, he led the way and Beth followed him. 
 
 Mikey was sitting on the edge of his cot, 
 staring vacantly, unseeingly, at the wall, three 
 feet away. He turned an apathetic look on 
 Beth when she stopped, close to the cell door, 
 and spoke to him. 
 
 "Mikey!" she pleaded, "I want to come in 
 and talk with you — I want to help you. I am 
 so sorry — so terribly sorry, I didn't understand, 
 last night — that I let you go away, angry, 
 
JUST FOLKS 363 
 
 when you needed me so. I hope you'll forgive 
 me, Mikey, and let me talk to you now. Will 
 you, Mikey?" 
 
 For a moment, Mikey did not answer — did not 
 appear as if he even heard. Then, "Theer's 
 nuttin' t' talk about," he said sullenly. 
 
 "There's everything to talk about ! If you 
 could have seen your mother, Mikey — last 
 night, and this morning ! If you could know 
 as I know, what she's suffering, you'd see that 
 there is everything to talk about. Won't you 
 hear what I've got to say to you, even if you 
 have nothing to say to me ?" 
 
 Again, Mikey made no answer. But Beth saw 
 in his face the signs of softening. She nodded, 
 over her shoulder, to the Jailer, and he stepped 
 forward and unlocked the door, then locked it 
 after her when she had slipped inside. 
 
 Sitting on the cot beside Mikey, she began to 
 plead with him. 
 
 " I tell ye, I didn' kill no Greek," he kept saying 
 doggedly. 
 
 Beth pleaded all the advantages of confession. 
 She tried to go over, in detail, the conversations 
 with his mother, last night and this morning. 
 
 "I tell ye, I didn' kill no Greek," he reiterated. 
 
 Beth even told what the desk sergeant at 
 Maxwell Street had said about the Greek. 
 "And every one will feel the same way, Mikey," 
 she said. " Especially when it's known how much 
 
364 JUST FOLKS 
 
 you've had to stand, what a hard fight yours has 
 been, people will judge you gently, Mikey dear. 
 Just stand up and say you did it, and tell why. 
 If you don't, they'll try you — there'll be big 
 expense to the state — and in the end you won't 
 get as much sympathy, because of all the trouble 
 you have made." 
 
 "I tell ye, I didn' kill no Greek." 
 
 "And listen, Mikey ! I've been to see the 
 man you used to drive for — " Here Mikey 
 showed his first gleam of real awakening. "And 
 he says — I pleaded with him to take you back, 
 but he feels pretty sore about the strike, and he 
 refused — he says that if I can get you any other 
 job, to drive, and the new employers want to 
 buy a horse, he'll let them — have Ginger for 
 you." 
 
 To Beth's intense surprise, Mikey began 
 to sob. 
 
 "What is it, Mikey ?" she entreated. "What 
 is it?" 
 
 He flung himself face downward on the cot, 
 and shook with sobbing. 
 
 Beth slipped to the floor and knelt beside him, 
 her face close to his. "Mikey!" she whispered, 
 entreatingly, "can't you tell me? Can't you 
 see how much I want to help you ?" 
 
 Slowly, as if every word were wrung from him 
 in agony, and muffled by the deep burial of his 
 face within the hollow of his outstretched arms 
 
JUST FOLKS 365 
 
 Mikey answered, "I — hurt — the fella — that 
 was — drivin' — Ginger !" 
 
 "You hurt — " Beth began, repeating after 
 him uncomprehendingly. Then light broke upon 
 her. "When? Last night?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Just before you came to me ?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 "And you weren't near the Greek's, at all ?" 
 
 "No'm." 
 
 "Oh, Mikey! Why didn't you tell this 
 before?" 
 
 "I — couldn'. An' annyway, they wouldn' 
 listen t' me. They kep' askin' me t'ings I didn' 
 know nuttin' about." 
 
 "Where were you when you hurt the boy?" 
 
 "Down town — " Mikey sat up, now, and 
 started to talk more freely — much more freely, 
 indeed, than Beth had ever heard him talk. 
 It was as if, now that he had begun, his relief 
 was so great that he could hardly say enough — 
 only, the habit of years made speech difficult. 
 He was like a mariner, rescued after long isola- 
 tion from all human-kind ; full of desire to talk 
 and be understood, but almost without speech 
 to express himself. 
 
 "I was huntin' work all day," he went on, 
 "after Ang'la come home. I had t' have work, 
 an' I couldn' git none. When it was supper-time, 
 I wouldn' go home 'n' eat no more o' what Ma 
 
366 JUST FOLKS 
 
 earned scrubbin'. 'Whin I git work, I'll go 
 home to 'em,' I says t' mesilf, 'an' not before.'" 
 
 Mikey's evident pride in this decision was so 
 great that Beth's heart ached as she thought 
 how little he understood his mother, how little 
 his mother understood him, and at what pitiful 
 cross purposes poor human natures play even 
 when each is trying to do what seems best and 
 most unselfish to him. 
 
 "About nine o'clock, I guess," Mikey went on, 
 "I was lookin' fer a place t' sleep, down by the 
 freight sheds, whin I — whin I seen — Ginger. 
 He — he seen me before I even seen him. An' 
 I was talkin' to him whin — the fella that drives 
 him, now, come out an' tol' me t' l'ave the 
 horse be. I — I dunno jest what happened, 
 but I know I hit 'im — in the nose — an' it bled 
 — an' he hollered — an' I run — t' you. I was 
 goin' t' till you — 'count o' havin' promised ye 
 I wouldn' strike no blow, whativer I done." 
 
 "And I was stupid, Mikey, and began to ask 
 you questions instead of waiting to hear what 
 you came to say. If you could know how bad I 
 feel about the way I acted ! I might have saved 
 so much suffering !" 
 
 But Mikey seemed to have no resentfulness ; 
 neither regret for what his mother had undergone, 
 nor distress over what had happened to him. 
 
 "They got me whin I was comin' back down 
 town," he said, "an' began t'rowin' it into me 
 
JUST FOLKS 367 
 
 about some dago. I told 'em I didn' know, an' 
 I t'ought they'd soon fin' out I didn'. An' 
 whin they ast me about me han's an' coat — like 
 you done ! — I toP nuttin'. That man Gooch 
 that lives by your house, he's the right sort ! 
 He says t' me, after that t'ing happened between 
 him an' Slosson, he says — whin I told him I'd 
 be glad if it was me got the chanst t' kick Slosson 
 clean t' Hell, he says, 'No !' he says, 'I'd be glad 
 if God A'mighty'd take him an' all his kin' 
 an' put thim wheer they belong,' he says, 'but I 
 don' want t' be the man that makes labor's 
 battle harder by drawin' blood,' he says. 'The 
 rights o' the workin' min,' he says, 'is the on'y 
 rights in this world that has been won widout 
 blood an' battle. Fightin' only sets us back,' 
 he says. He talked t' me pretty fine — that 
 man did ! That little kid o' his ought t' be a 
 good man, you bet ! An' I wasn' goin' t' l'ave 
 him — ner you — t'ink low o' me by knowin' 
 what I done. But I dunno — seemed like I run 
 t' you widout meanin' to. An' so — d'ye t'ink 
 he'll have t' know, too ?" 
 
 "Not if we can help it, he won't ! But if he 
 does know, I'm sure he'll understand — as I 
 do, Mikey. Now I must go. I hope we can 
 get you out of here so you can go home to-night. 
 And if we do, I want you to promise me one 
 thing; swear it on whatever is most sacred to 
 you — that you won't try to help your mother, 
 
368 JUST FOLKS 
 
 another time, by staying away from home and 
 not telling her where you are ! " 
 Mikey promised. 
 
 "Now," finished Beth, when she had told all 
 this, rapidly, to the Jailer, "if only that murder 
 mystery unravels itself a bit, so Mikey can go 
 home." 
 
 But Mikey was not as madly impatient 
 about being free as many persons in like circum- 
 stances might have been. And meantime, it 
 was a tremendous relief to Beth to have this 
 story of his, which she fully believed, however 
 far from believing it the police authorities might 
 reasonably be. 
 
 Beth had not time to go over to Mary's on her 
 return from the Jail. She had no time for 
 luncheon, either, except for a banana and a bun, 
 eaten in an ante-room while she waited for her 
 cases to be called. But before she thought 
 of eating, she scrawled a note to lift the suspense 
 in Henry Street — trusting that Angela Ann or 
 some of the children might be there to read it. 
 "I have seen Mikey and he did not do it," the 
 note said. "Everything will soon be all right. 
 Don't worry. I'll be over after court." A boy in 
 Ewing Street, when Beth offered him a dime 
 to take this note to Henry Street, looked at her 
 as if he thought she were either drunk or 
 crazy, then pocketed the dime and sped away 
 
JUST FOLKS 369 
 
 before she could have time to repent her reck- 
 lessness. 
 
 Hart Ferris came into court before the session 
 was over. His face was beaming. 
 
 "Beth," he said — and there was contrition 
 in his look and in his tone — "you don't know 
 how glad I am — " 
 
 Beth looked mystified. She thought he had 
 heard about her interview with Mikey, and she 
 wondered how. "Have you seen Mikey?" 
 she asked. 
 
 "Not since this morning. Have you ?" 
 
 "Why, yes ; I saw him at noon." 
 
 "At noon ? He didn't know then ?" 
 
 "Know what ?" 
 
 "Why, Beth! I thought you knew — " 
 
 "Thought I knew—?" 
 
 "Yes ; the man who killed the Greek is found." 
 
 "He is?" 
 
 "And has confessed." 
 
 "He has?" 
 
 "It was as the desk sergeant surmised, last 
 night—" 
 
 "Some father—?" 
 
 "Yes — learned it was through the Greek 
 his girl had gone into — into what Angela went 
 into — and so he, not knowing how to prosecute, 
 became his own avenger." 
 
 "And has told his story ?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 2B 
 
370 JUST FOLKS 
 
 " It will go easy with him ? " Beth's sympa- 
 thies had travelled, in a flash, to another home 
 whereon the gloom would settle as it lifted from 
 the Caseys'. 
 
 "Oh, surely." 
 
 " But even at the easiest — ! " Beth shook her 
 head. Instead of Mary, in that outer room 
 where the gray waiting sit, there would be another 
 woman, white-faced and heavy-hearted. If only 
 there could ever be in this close-knit world a 
 pure joy, unmixed with any thought of some one 
 else's woe ! 
 
 As soon as she could get away, they went 
 over to Henry Street. Mary was getting ready to 
 go down town to scrub — fixing a bit of supper for 
 the children to eat at six or seven or whenever 
 they felt most like it. Angela Ann stood idly 
 by, watching her mother half-interestedly. It 
 was going to be dull at home, for Angela Ann — 
 safe and kind, but very, very dull. Beth thought 
 of that, the moment she saw Angela standing 
 there ; back in her home, but not of it. No ! 
 in no sense of it as the others were, even 
 Mikey. Beth wondered how long the girl would 
 stay. 
 
 "Don't go down town to-night, Mary," she 
 pleaded. "We must find some other way than 
 for you to scrub at night. I'm going over to the 
 corner to telephone and ask if Mikey will be 
 home to supper. If he comes, we must have a 
 
JUST FOLKS 371 
 
 celebration. We ought to have had one last 
 night, for Angela ; but we were all so troubled 
 yesterday. To-night, if Mikey comes, we'll 
 have a grand jubilee for both returns. Angela, 
 will you come with me and help me ?" 
 
 On the way to the Avenue and back, Beth 
 noticed that the acquaintances of Angela they 
 met had a sceptical bearing. They were told 
 that Angela had been working as nurse-maid for 
 a lady who had taken her to the country. (This 
 was the story Mary had consistently told since 
 Angela's disappearance.) But not many, it was 
 evident, gave credence to the story. 
 
 "Lose yer job, Ang'la ?" shouted one youth 
 at her from a distance of a hundred feet or 
 more. Angela's effort at bravado was pitiful 
 to see; and the youth's wink and leer were 
 revolting. 
 
 "Angela's got to be taken out of this neighbor- 
 hood, quick !" was Beth's mental calculation as 
 they hurried on their errand. 
 
 She got the Jailer on the 'phone. Mikey had 
 started for home some little time ago. So she 
 and Angela bought the feast, Angela's listlessness 
 dropping from her like a blanket. 
 
 Beth made the most possible of the occasion in 
 the way of excitement, knowing that excitement 
 was what Angela's poor little soul craved. 
 The crowning extravagance was a big water- 
 melon, "ice cold," which the grocer's boy carried 
 
372 JUST FOLKS 
 
 home for them, creating a small sensation in 
 Henry Street where whole watermelons were of 
 infrequent occurrence. 
 
 When they got back to the house, Mikey was 
 there. Mary wanted Beth and Mr. Ferris to 
 stay to supper, but Beth said no. "It is a long, 
 long time since you all sat down to a meal to- 
 gether, and I think you'll be happier just by 
 yourselves," she said. "But I'll be over early 
 in the morning, Mary, for I've a world of things 
 to talk to you about. I wish you'd talk over some 
 of them among yourselves, this evening. One 
 thing I'm almost sure I can manage within a 
 very few days is to get Mikey a job — driving. 
 And I have hopes — you know, Mikey, what I 
 told you this morning ! Then we've got to think 
 how we can get Angela just the nicest job that 
 ever was, in some pleasant place where she 
 can work with lots of young folks and have real 
 good times. And Mary, I believe this is the 
 time for you to move. While Angela was away, 
 you wouldn't think of it, for fear she'd come 
 back and fail to find you. But now that you're 
 all together, I think you ought to get out of this 
 cellar and get a better place to live and for 
 Angela to ask her friends to. I know where we 
 can borrow money to pay for the moving and the 
 advance rent. Mikey can sign papers to pay it 
 back out of his wages, and the man that lends 
 it won't charge any interest. Now, you talk all 
 
JUST FOLKS 373 
 
 these things over — and I'll see you in the 
 morning." 
 
 Mary went with them as far as the bottom of 
 the stairs leading to the sidewalk. "Ain't 
 it wonderful," she said, wiping the tears of happi- 
 ness and gratefulness from her eyes, "how t'ings 
 has worked out fer me an' mine ? An' d'ye min' 
 what I said las' night 'bout prayin' fer a sign I 
 didn't nade t' make Ang'la ashamed ? Ain't 
 it wonderful how the sacrifice was took off of 
 me an' laid on another ? You'll be goin' t' see 
 that man that done it — won'tye ? An' if theer's 
 annythin' in all the world I kin do t' help 'im 
 er his fam'ly, ye'll be sure to lit me do it — won't 
 ye, darlin' ?" 
 
 Beth promised, and Mary went back to spread 
 the feast of rejoicing. 
 
 Beth and Ferris dined in Hull House restaurant. 
 Up to the moment when, their order given, they 
 sat facing one another across the black oak 
 table, neither of them had said a word about last 
 night's difference. 
 
 Better than anything Ferris could possibly 
 have pleaded in his extenuation, was the un- 
 mistakable look he wore of one who has been 
 sore beset. Beth had noted it in a moment; 
 it spoke volumes to her, and stirred her swift 
 forgivingness. 
 
 When their waitress had gone, Ferris looked 
 
374 JUST FOLKS 
 
 across at Beth and tried to smile ; it was a wan 
 effort. 
 
 "This has been an awful day," he said. 
 
 Beth nodded briskly; she was always brisk 
 when she was fearful of her self-control. 
 
 "I was like Mary," he went on; "I kept 
 praying for a sign I needn't do it ; but the sign 
 didn't come — and I remembered what she 
 said. I could see me losing you forever, if I tpld 
 on Mikey — I had visions of Mikey hanged, and 
 Mary's heart broken, and you hating me. I 
 didn't know I was made of such stern stuff — 
 but the — the other thing wouldn't go ! I'm 
 not looking for sympathy — but I want you to 
 know it wasn't any easy thing for me to stand 
 against you — " 
 
 "I never supposed it was easy," said Beth, 
 gently, "but I couldn't understand why you felt 
 you must do it. I thought you ought to care 
 more about Mary and Mikey — and I thought 
 you ought to care more about me." 
 
 Ferris smiled tenderly. "I thought I ought 
 to, too," he said, "that was the strange part of 
 it ! But I suppose ' I could not love thee, dear, so 
 much, loved I not honor more.' " 
 
 "I know," said Beth. "You had to be true to 
 yourself — we all have to. I was hurt — but in 
 my 'deepest deepmost heart' I don't suppose 
 I ever thought of loving you less because you 
 couldn't see things just exactly as I do. I 
 
JUST FOLKS 375 
 
 believe we see things alike almost as much as is 
 safe in a partnership — don't you ? If there's 
 never a bit of difference, two are no better than 
 one — are they ? And I — I think two are /" 
 
 After dinner was over, they walked, in the 
 summer dusk, up one teeming street and down 
 another — trying to decide where they would 
 most like to find a four-room flat. 
 
 For "reporters can't marry and live in an 
 apartment," as Ferris said, "but any working 
 man who likes the Nineteenth Ward can marry 
 and live in a flat." 
 
 "And we wouldn't take an apartment anywhere 
 else, if it was endowed — would we ? " asked Beth. 
 
 "What's the use of living away from where 
 all your friends live?" he answered happily. 
 
 Toward nine o'clock they went back to Max- 
 well Street. Hannah Wexsmith was sitting on 
 the door-step in the shadow of Monahan's side- 
 walk display. 
 
 "Slosson," she told them quite triumphantly, 
 "is comin' home to-morrow." Home! To the 
 room where he had never cast anchor to the ex- 
 tent of so much as a "Sunday collar-button" ! 
 And he would never pay the back rent, nor 
 ever be cured of "the failin'." But he had been 
 Hannah's burden and anxiety for eight long years, 
 and she had been lonesome without him, though 
 when he was there they seldom spoke. 
 
376 JUST FOLKS 
 
 Joe Gooch was sitting in his "front" room, 
 minding his baby and reading Hannah's evening 
 paper. Mamie and Clarence were out. Beth 
 stopped at the open door to tell Joe what Mikey 
 had said about him that morning, and the way 
 Joe's face lighted with tender pride, was beautiful 
 to see. 
 
 "Thank ye fer tellin' me," he said. "I guess 
 mebbe you don't know jest how much I needed 
 that." ' 
 
 The Slinskys' door was open, too — they were 
 more neighborly and less sensitive, of late — 
 and Dinah heard Beth's voice in the hall below 
 when she was talking to Joe Gooch. She was 
 waiting, when Beth reached the top of the stairs, 
 to speak to her. 
 
 "I had a lovely letter to-day from Mrs. Brent," 
 said Dinah, "and she sent her best, best love to 
 you. She seems to be very happy, and she 
 says she hopes to be here some time this fall." 
 
 Liza and Adam Spear were on their respective 
 sides of the kitchen table ; Liza sewing, and Adam 
 reading the paper. Beth and Ferris told them 
 all the news. 
 
 Liza was particularly interested in the way 
 Mary Casey had been spared the bitterness of 
 publishing Angela's shame. 
 
 "Seems like God'd made up his mind that 
 woman had been tried about enough — don't 
 it ?" she remarked. "I s'pose some folks'd call 
 
JUST FOLKS 377 
 
 it chance — all chance ! But when you live 
 real close t' people an' know lots about their 
 lives, the ways o' Providence, it seems t' me, is 
 pretty plain." 
 
 "And the unbelieving people are the ones 
 who don't 'live close,'" said little Beth. 
 
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 By MABEL OSGOOD WRIGHT 
 
 Author of "Poppea of the Post-Office," 
 "The Garden of a Commuter's Wife," etc. 
 
 Princess Flower Hat Decorated cloth, i2mo, $1.50 
 
 (November, igio) 
 
 THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 
 
 PUBLISHERS, 64-66 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YOBK 
 
THIS BOOK IS DUE ON THE LAST DATE 
 STAMPED BELOW 
 
 AN INITIAL FINE OF 25 CENTS 
 
 WILL BE ASSESSED FOR FAILURE TO RETURN 
 THIS BOOK ON THE DATE DUE. THE PENALTY 
 WILL INCREASE TO 50 CENTS ON THE FOURTH 
 DAY AND TO $1.00 ON THE SEVENTH DAY 
 OVERDUE. 
 
 JUL 12 1937 
 
 3Au?mvr 
 
 ~ - ,- *•- — * ""* 
 
 JUL 22 1868 
 
 SENT ON ILL 
 
 JUN 8 1994 
 
 SENT ON ILL 
 
 OCT 2 5 1994 
 
 U. C. BERKELEY 
 
 LD 21-100ro-8,'34 
 
IB 33179 
 
 912908 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA UBRARY