Story-4

NOW I’LL DROP civic affairs for a bit, and go on to a most natural act in this city of many young chaps and charming young girls which was slowly working up all through this history, as Mayor Gadsby had occasion to find out, sitting comfortably on his porch on a hot, sultry August night. Amidst blossoming shrubs, a dim form slowly trod up his winding pathway. It was a young man, plainly trying to act calmly, but couldn’t. It was Frank Morgan, our radio broadcasting “boss”, you know, who, for many a month, had shown what a romantic public calls “a crush” for Gadsby’s young Nancy.

So a jolly call of:—“What’s on your mind, boy?” rang out, as Frank sank willingly into a hammock, wiping his brow of what I actually know was not natural humidity from an August night! Now Gadsby, who was, as I said, a gay Lothario in his own youth, saw right off what was coming, and sat back, waiting. Finally, finishing a bad attack of coughing, (though Frank hadn’t any cold!), that young man said:— “I,—that is, Nancy and I,—or, I will say that I want to,—that is,—I think Nancy and I would—” and Gadsby took pity on him, right off.

Nancy had always had a strong liking for Frank. Both had grown up in Branton Hills from babyhood; and Gadsby thought back about that lassoo which had brought him Lady Gadsby. Now asking a girl’s Dad for that young lady’s hand is no snap for any young swain; and Gadsby was just that kind of a Dad who would smooth out any bumps or rough spots in such a young swain’s path. Nancy wasn’t a child, now, but a grown-up young woman: so Gadsby said:— “Frank, Lady Gadsby and I know all about how much you think of Nancy; and what Nancy thinks of you. So, if you want to marry, our full wish is for a long and happy union. Nancy is out in that arbor, down this back path; and I’ll watch that nobody disturbs you two for an hour.”

At this grand turn of affairs, Frank could only gasp:—“OH—H—H!!” and a shadowy form shot down that dusky path; and from that moonlit arbor, anybody knowing how a man chirps to a canary bird, would know that two young birds put a binding approval upon what His Honor had just said!!

Many a man has known that startling instant in which Dan Cupid, that busy young rascal, took things in hand, and told him that his baby girl was not a baby girl now, and was about to fly away from him. It is both a happy and a sad thrill that shoots through a man at such an instant. Happy and joyous at his girl’s arrival at maturity; sad, as it brings to mind that awkward fact that his own youth is now but a myth; and that his scalp is showing vacant spots. His baby girl in a bridal gown! His baby girl a Matron! His baby girl proudly placing a grandchild in his lap!! It’s an impossibility!! But this big world is full of this kind of impossibility, and will stay so as long as Man lasts.

So Nancy, tiny, happy, laughing Nancy, was “found” through a conspiracy by Dan Cupid and Frank Morgan; and right in all glory of youth. Youth!! Ah, what a word!! And how transitory! But, how grand! as long as it lasts. How many millions in gold would pour out for an ability to call it all back, as with our musical myth, Faust. During that magic part of a child’s growth this world is just a gigantic inquiry box, containing many a topic for which a solution is paramount to a growing mind. And to whom can a child look, but us adults? Any man who “can’t stop now” to talk with a child upon a topic which, to him is

“too silly for anything,” should look back to that day upon which that topic was dark and dubious in his own brain. A child who asks nothing will know nothing. That is why that “bump of inquiry” was put on top of our skullsBUT TO GO BACK TO Nancy. It was in August that Frank had stumblingly told Gadsby of his troth; and so, along in April, Branton Hills was told that a grand church ritual would occur in May. May, with its blossoms, birds and balmy air! An idyllic month for matrimony. I wish that I could call this grand church affair by its common, customary nomination; but that word can’t possibly crowd into this story. It must pass simply as a church ritual.

All right; so far, so good. So, along into April all Branton Hills was agog, awaiting information as to that actual day; or, I should say, night.

Gadsby’s old Organization of Youth was still as loyal to all in it as it was, way back in days of its formation; days of almost constantly running around town, soliciting funds for many a good Municipal activity. Finally this group got cards announcing that on May Fourth, Branton Hills’ First Church would admit all who might wish to aid in starting Nancy and Frank upon that glamorous path to matrimonial bliss.

May Fourth was punctual in arriving; though many a young girl got into that flighty condition in which a month drags along as though in irons, and clock-hands look as if stuck fast. But to many girls, also, May Fourth was not any too far away; for charming gowns and dainty hats do not grow upon shrubs, you know; and girls who work all day must hurry at night, at manipulating a thousand or so things which go towards adorning our girls of today.

Now, an approach to a young girl’s “big day” is not always as that girl might wish. Small things bob up, which, at first, look actually disastrous for a joyous occasion; and for Nancy and Frank, just such a thing did bob up; for, on May Third, a pouring rain and whistling wind put Branton Hills’ spirits way, way down into a sorrowful slump. Black, ugly, rumbling clouds hung aggravatingly about in a saturation of mist, rain and fog; and roads and lawns got such a washing that Nancy said:— “Anyway, if I can’t walk across that front church yard, I can swim it!!”

That was Nancy; a small bunch of inborn good humor; and I’ll say, right now, that it took good humor, and lots of it, to look upon conditions out of your control, with such outstanding pluck!

But young Dan Cupid was still around, and got in touch with that tyrannical mythological god who controls storms; and put forth such a convincing account of all Nancy’s good points, (and Frank’s too, if anybody should ask you) that a command rang out across a stormy sky:— “Calling all clouds!! Calling all clouds!!

All rain to stop at midnight of May Third! Bright Sun on May Fourth, and no wind!”

So, as Nancy took an anxious squint out of doors at about six o’clock on that important morning, (and what young girl could go on, calmly snoozing on such a day?) Lo!! Old Sol was smiling brightly down on Branton Hills; birds sang; all sorts of blossoming things had had a good drink; and a most glorious sky, rid of all ugly clouds, put our young lady into such a happy mood that it took a lot of control to avoid just a tiny bit of humidity around a small pair of rich, brown orbs which always had that vibrating, dancing light of happy youth; that miraculous “joy of living.”

And, what a circus was soon going full tilt in Mayor Gadsby’s mansion! If that happy man

so much as said:-

“Now, I—” a grand, womanly chorus told him that “a man don’t know anything about such affairs;” and that a most satisfactory spot for him was in a hammock on his porch, with a good cigar! That’s it! A man is nominally monarch in his own family; but only so on that outstanding day upon which a bridal gown is laid out in all its glory on his parlor sofa, and a small mob of girls, and occasionally a woman or two, is rushing in and out, up and down stairs, and finding as much to do as a commonly known microscopic “bug” of prodigious hopping ability finds at a dog show. Rush! rush! rush! A thousand thoughts and a million words, (this crowd was all girls, you know!) making that parlor as noisy as a saw mill! But Gadsby laughingly staid out of it all, watching big armfuls of bloom and many a curious looking box go in through that front door; flying hands rapidly untying glorious ribbon wrappings.

Now, upon all such occasions you will find, if you snoop around in dining room or pantry, an astonishing loaf of culinary art, all fancy frosting, and chuck full of raisins and citron, which is always cut upon such an auspicious occasion; and it is as hard to avoid naming it, in this story, as it is to withstand its assault upon your stomach.

Oh hum! Now what? Aha! May Fourth, lasting, as Nancy said, “for about a million months,” finally got Gadsby’s dining room clock around to six-fifty; only about an hour, now, to that grand march past practically half of Branton Hills’ population; for all who couldn’t jam into that commodious church would stand around in a solid phalanx, blocking all traffic in that part of town; for all Branton Hills was fond of its Mayor’s “baby girl.”

But, during this rush and hubbub, how about Frank? Poor boy! Now, if you think that a young lad at such an instant is as calm as a millpond, you don’t know romantic Youth, that’s all. About forty of Gadsby’s old Organization boys, now many young chaps, had bought him a car, which Nancy was not to know anything about until that throwing of old boots, and what is also customary, had quit. Frank didn’t want to hold it back from Nancy, but what can a chap do, against forty? Also, last night, at a big “so sorry, old chap” party, Frank had found how loyal a bunch of old pals can turn out; and this “grand launching into matrimonial doubt” had put him in a happy mood for that all important oration of two words:—

“I do.”

So now I’ll hurry around to church to find out how Nancy’s Organization girls put in a long day of hard labor; not only at floor work, but up on stools and chairs. My! My! Just look and gasp!! A long chain of lilacs runs from door to altar in two rows. And look at that big arch of wistaria and narcissus half way along! Artificial palms stand in curving ranks from organ to walls; and, with all lights softly glowing through pink silk hoods; and with gilt cords outlining an altar-dais of moss and sprays of asparagus, it is a sight to bring a thrill to anybody, young or old.

And, now — aha!! With organist and Pastor waiting, a murmur and hand-clapping from that big front door told all who had luckily got in that Nancy was coming! It took thirty cars to bring that bridal party to church; for not a boy or girl of our old Organization would miss this occasion for a farm, with a pig on it with four kinks in its tail. Now, naturally, any girl would long to walk up that Holy path with Nancy, but too many would

spoil things; so, by drawing lots, Nancy had for company, Sarah Young, Lucy Donaldson, Priscilla Standish, Virginia Adams, Doris Johnson and Cora Grant; with Kathlyn as Maid of Honor, as charming an array of youthful glory as you could find in all Branton Hills. Until this important arrival, Branton Hills’ famous organist, just plain John Smith, was playing softly, - “Just a Song at Twilight,” watching for a signal from Mayor Gadsby; and soon swung into that famous march which brought forth a grand thrill, as tiny, blushing, palpitating Nancy took “Dad’s” arm, gazing with shining orbs at that distant—oh, so distant—altar.

Now I want to know why anybody should want to cry on such a grand occasion. What is sad about it? But many a lash was moist as that tiny vision of glamorous purity slowly trod that fragrant pathway. Possibly girls can’t avoid it; anyway, our Branton Hills girls didn’t try to do so.

Gadsby, as has many a good old Dad, fought back any such showing; but I won’t say that his thoughts didn’t nag him; for, giving away your baby girl to any young, though first- class chap, is not actually fun. But that long, long trail finally brought him to that mossy dais, at which Frank, coming in through a handy door, stood waiting. Nancy was as calm as a wax doll; but Frank stood shaking with a most annoying cough (of imaginary origin!) as Pastor Brown stood, book in hand. Now I won’t go through with all that was said; nor say anything about Nancy’s tiny, warm, soft hand as it was put in Frank’s big clumsy fist by Pastor Brown. Nor about that first Holy kiss; nor that long, mighty roar of organ music, as our happy, blushing pair trod that long pathway, door-wards. You know all about it, anyway, as most such rituals follow a standard custom. Nor shall I go into that happy hour at His Honor’s mansion, during which that fancy loaf of frosting, raisins and citron was cut; (and which many a girl put in a pillow that night!); nor of that big bridal bunch of blossoms, which was thrown from a stairway into a happy group of hopping, jumping, laughing girls. (But I will say,—shhhh! that Kathlyn caught it!); nor anything of Nancy and Frank’s thrilling trip to Branton Hills’ big railway station, in that gift car which Nancy thought was a king’s chariot; nor of a grand, low bow by old Pat Ryan of that station’s trunk room. It was just that customary “All aboard!!” a crowd’s “Hooray!!” and “Good Luck!!”, with Branton Hills’ Municipal Band a-blaring, and a mighty mob shouting and waving.

Oh, hum! I’ll turn from this happy affair now and try to find out what was going on in this thriving, hustling city. Now you probably think of a city as a gigantic thing; for, if you go up onto a high hill, and look around across that vast array of buildings, parks, roads and distant suburbs, you not only think that it is a gigantic thing, you know it is. But, is it?

Just stop and think a bit. All such things as bulk, or width, you know by comparison only; comparison with familiar things. So, just for fun, go up in an imaginary balloon, about half way to that old Moon, which has hung aloft from your birth—(and possibly a day or two in addition)— and look down upon your “gigantic” city. How will it look? It is a small patch of various colors; but you know that, within that tiny patch, many thousands of your kind hurry back and forth; railway trains crawl out to far-away districts; and, if you can pick out a grain of dust that stands out dimly in a glow of sunlight, you may know that it is your mansion, your cabin or your hut, according to your financial status. Now, if that hardly shows up, how about you? What kind of a dot would you form in comparison? You must admit that your past thoughts as to your own pomposity will shrink just a bit! All this shows us that could this big World think, it wouldn’t know that such a thing as Man was on it. And Man thinks that his part in all this unthinkably vast Cosmos is important! Why, you poor shrimp! if this old World wants to twitch just a bit and knock down a city or two, or split up a group of mountains, Man, with all his brain capacity, can only clash wildly about, dodging falling bricks. No. You wouldn’t show up from that balloon as plainly as an ant, in crawling around our Capitol building at Washington.

But why all this talk about our own inconspicuosity? It is simply brought up to accompany Nancy’s thoughts as that train shot across country; for Nancy, until now, had not known anything approaching such a trip. So this happy, happy trip, back upon which many a woman looks, with a romantic thrill, was astounding to such a girl. From Branton Hills to San Francisco; a boat to Honolulu, Manila, Shanghai, Hong Kong, Colombo, and finally Cairo. Ah! Cairo!! In thinking of it you naturally bring up two words —“Pyramids” and “Sphinx”, words familiar from school days. Practically from birth, Nancy, along with millions of folks, had known that famous illustration of a thing half lion and half woman; and a mountainous mass of masonry, built for a king’s tomb. So, standing right in front of both, Nancy and Frank got that wondrous thrill coming from attaining a long, long wish. From Cairo to Italy, Spain, London, Paris, and that grand Atlantic sail, landing at Boston, and hustling by fast train (but how slow it did go!!) to Branton Hills! So, along about Thanksgiving Day, about half of its population was again at its big railway station, for Nancy was coming back. (And Frank, too, if anybody should ask you.)

And with that big Municipal Band a-booming and blaring, and a crowd of our old Organization girls pushing forward, did Branton Hills look good to Nancy? And did Nancy look good to Branton Hills. What a glorious tan, from days and days on shipboard! And was that old Atlantic ugly? Ask Frank, poor chap, who, as on that big Pacific, had found out just what a ship’s rail is for! And that stomachs can turn most amazing flip-flops if an old boat is too frisky!

In just an instant, actual count, Nancy was in Lady Gadsby’s arms, fighting valiantly to hold back a flood of big, happy sobs; and Frank was busy, grabbing a cloud of hands

surging towards him.

Coming back from a long trip is a happy occasion. And it is also mighty good to put a trunk or a bag down, knowing that it will “stay put” for a day or two, anyway. That constant packing and unpacking on a long trip, soon turns into an automatic function; and how Nancy did worry about what transportation customs in various lands would do to a first class trunk which has a romantic history, owing to its coming as a matrimonial gift from a group of loving girls. But now; ah! Put it away, and your things around, in familiar disposal.

Long trips do bring lots of fun and information; but a truly long trip is tiring, both in body and mind.

But Nancy and Frank won’t stay with Gadsby long; for, during that trip, a charming bungalow was built on a lot of Gadsby’s, facing City Park; and Nancy put in many days arranging things in it. Anybody who has had such joyful work to do, knows how assiduously a young pair would go about it; for two young robins carrying bits of cotton and string up to a criss-cross of twigs in a big oak, with constant soft, loving chirps, “had nothing,” according to our popular slang, on Nancy and Frank.

Finally “moving in day” got around, with that customary party, to which you carry a gift to add to such things as a young husband on only a small salary can install. And how gifts did pour in!! Rugs, chairs, small stands, urns, clocks, photos in wall mountings, dainty scarfs (all hand-work by our girls in our Night School), books, lamps, a “radio” from Station KBH, until, finally, a big truck found an opportunity in that coming and going throng to back in and unload an upright piano, all satin ribbon wrappings, with a card “From Branton Hills’ Municipal Band.”

I COULD GO on for hours about this starting out of Nancy and Frank, but many civic affairs await us; for Julius Gadsby, who has not got into this story up to now, had, from his constant poring through all kinds of books of information, built up a thorough insight into fossils; and you know that Kathlyn is way up in Biology; which brings in our awkward “bugs” again. Now bugs will burrow in soil, and always did, from History’s birth; building catacombs which at last vanish through a piling up of rocks, sand or soil on that spot. Now Julius continually ran across accounts of important “finds” of such fossils, and with Kathlyn’s aid was soon inaugurating popular clamor for a big Hall of Natural History.

This, Julius and Kathlyn thought, would turn out as popular, in a way, as living animals out at our Zoo. But an appropriation for a Hall of Natural History is a hard thing to jam through a City Council; for though its occupants call for no food, you can’t maintain such a building without human custody; “which,” said Old Bill Simpkins. “is but a tricky way of saying CASH!” But our Council was by now so familiar with calls from that famous “Organization”, and, owing to its inborn faith in that grand body of hustling Youth, such a building was built; Julius and Kathlyn arranging all displays of fossil birds, plants, “bugs,” footprints, raindrop marks, worms, skulls, parts of jaws, and so on. And what a crowd was on hand for that first public day! Julius and Kathlyn took visitors through various rooms, giving much data upon what was shown; and many a Branton Hills inhabitant found out a lot of facts about our vast past; about organisms living so far back in oblivion as to balk Man’s brain to grasp. Kathlyn stood amongst groups of botanical fossilizations, with Gadsby not far away, as this studious young woman told school pupils how our common plants of today through various transitions in form, show a kinship with what now lay, in miraculously good condition, in this big Hall; and Julius told staring groups how this or that fossil did actually link such animals as our cow or walrus of today with original forms totally apart, both in looks and habits. And it was comforting to Gadsby to find pupils asking how long ago this was, and noting that amazing look as Julius had to say that nobody knows.

Such a building is an addition to any city; for this big World is so old that human calculation cannot fathom it; and it will, in all probability, go on always. So it is improving a child’s mind to visit such displays; for it will start a train of thoughts along a path not commonly sought if such institutions do not stand as attractions. Now, in any community a crank will bob up, who will, with loud acclaim and high-sounding words, avow that it “is a scandalous drain on public funds to put up such a building just to show a lot of rocks, animals’ ribs and birds’ skulls.” But such loud bombasts only show up an “orator’s” brain capacity (or lack of it), and actually bring studious folks to ask for just such data upon things which his ridiculing had run down. It is an old, old story, that if you want a city’s population to go in strongly for anything, and you start a loud, bawling campaign against it, that public will turn to it for information as to its worth. So, just such a loud, bawling moron had to drift into our Hall on its inauguration day, and soon ran smack up against Kathlyn! That worthy girl, allowing him to “blow off” a bit, finally said:— “I know you. You run a stock farm. All right. You want to know all you can about matching and

crossing your stock, don’t you? I thought so. But God did all that, long, oh, so long ago; gradually producing such animals as you own today; and all you can do is to follow along, in your puny way, and try to avoid a poor quality of stock mixing with yours. This building contains thousands of God’s first works. It won’t do you a bit of harm to look through our rooms. Nothing will jump out at you!”

At that that barking critic shut up! And Gadsby slid outdoors, chuckling:— “That’s my girl talking!! That’s my Kathlyn!!”

It is curious why anybody should pooh-pooh a study of fossils or various forms of rocks or lava. Such things grant us our only vision into Natural History’s big book; and it isn’t a book in first-class condition. Far from it! Just a tiny scrap; a slip; or, possibly a big chunk is found, with nothing notifying us as to how it got to that particular point, nor how long ago. Man can only look at it, lift it, rap it, cut into it, and squint at it through a magnifying glass. And,— think about it. That’s all; until a formal study brings accompanying thoughts from many minds; and, by such tactics, judging that in all probability such and such a rock or fossil footprint is about so old. Natural History holds you in its grasp through just this impossibility of finding actual facts; for it is thus causing you to think. Now, thinking is not only a voluntary function; it is an acquisition; an art. Plants do not think. Animals probably do, but in a primary way, such as an aid in knowing poisonous foods, and how to bring up an offspring with similar ability. But Man can, and should think, and think hard and constantly. It is ridiculous to rush blindly into an action without looking forward to lay out a plan. Such an unthinking custom is almost a panic, and panic is but a mild form of insanity.

So Kathlyn and Julius did a grand, good thing in having this Hall as an addition to Branton Hills’ institutions.

Now, in any city or town, or almost any small community, you will find a building, or possibly only a room, about which said city or town has nothing to say. It is that most important institution in which you put a stamp on your mail and drop it into a slot, knowing that it will find its way across city or country to that man or woman who is waiting for it.

But how many young folks know how this mail is put out so quickly, and with such guaranty against loss? Not many, I think, if you ask. So Gadsby, holding up Youth as a Nation’s most important function in its coming history, thought that any act which would instruct a child in any way, was worthy. So, on a Saturday morning His Honor took a group of Grammar School pupils to a balcony in back of that all-hiding partition, and a postal official, showing all mail handling acts individually, said:— “In this country, two things stand first in rank: your flag and your mail. You all know what honor you pay to your flag, but you should know, also, that your mail, — just that ordinary postal card—is also important. But a postal card, or any form of mail, is not important, in that way, until you drop it through a slot in this building, and with a stamp on it, or into a mail box outdoors. Up to that instant it is but a common card, which anybody can pick up and carry off without committing a criminal act. But as soon as it is in back of this partition, or in a mail box, a magical transformation occurs; and anybody who now should willfully purloin it, or obstruct its trip in any way, will find prison doors awaiting him. What a frail thing ordinary mail is! A baby could rip it apart, but no adult is so foolish as to do it. That

small stamp which you stick on it, is, you might say, a postal official, going right along with it, having it always in his sight.”

A giggling girl was curious to know if that was why a man’s photo is on it. “Possibly,” said our official, laughing. “But wait a bit. Look downstairs. As your mail falls in through that slot, or is brought in by a mailman, it is put through an ink-daubing apparatus—that’s it, right down in front of you—which totally ruins its stamp. How about your man’s photo, now?”

A good laugh rang around, and our official said:— “Now a man sorts it according to its inscription, puts it into a canvas bag and aboard a train, or possibly an aircraft. But that bag has mail going to points a long way apart, so a man in a mail car sorts it out, so that Chicago won’t find mail in its bag which should go to California.”

At this point our giggling girl said:—

“Ooooo! I had a Christmas card for Missouri go way down to Mississippi!”

“How did you mark it?”

“I put M-i-s-s for Missouri.”

“Try M-o, and I wish you luck.”

As that laugh ran round, our official said:— “Now you know that you can buy a long, narrow stamp which will hurry your mail along. So, as all mail in this building is put up in many a small bunch, all with such stamps attract a mailman, who will so wrap a bunch that that kind of a stamp will show up plainly. Upon its arrival at a distant point, a boy will grab it, and hurry it to its final goal. But that stamp will not hurry it as long as it is on that train.”

Our giggling girl, swinging in again, said:— “What? With that stamp right on top?”

“How can it?” said our official. “A train can only go just so fast, stamp or no stamp.”

“Oh.”

Our boys and girls got a big thrill from this visit in back of that partition, and told Gadsby so. On coming out of that building our party saw a big patrolman putting a small boy into a patrol wagon. That poor kid was but a bunch of rags, dirty, and in a fighting mood. Our boys got a big laugh out of it. Our girls, though, did not. Young Marian Hopkins who had that fairy wand, you know, at our airport inauguration, said:—

“Oh, that poor child! Will that cop put him in jail, Mayor Gadsby?” At which His Honor instantly thought of a plan long in his mind. Branton Hills had a court room, a child’s court, in fact, at which a kindly man looks out for just such young waifs - trying to find out why such tots commit unlawful acts. So Gadsby said

“I don’t know, Marian, but I want you young folks to go on a visit, tonight, to our night court, to find out about just such wild boys. How many want to go?”

To his satisfaction, all did; and so, that night that court room had rows of young folks, all agog with curiosity which a first visit to a court stirs up in a child. Just by luck, our young vagrant in rags was brought in first, shaking with childish doubt as to what was going to occur. But that kindly man sitting back of that big mahogany railing had no thought of scaring a child, and said, calmly:— “Now, boy, what did you do that you ought not to do; and why did you do it?”

As our boys sat nudging and winking, but with our girls growing sad from sympathy, our young culprit said

“Aw! I grabs a bun, and dis big cop grabs my collar!”

“But why did you grab that bun? It wasn’t yours, you know.”

“Gosh, man!! I was hungry!!”

“Hungry? Don’t your folks look out for you?”

“Naw; I do my own looking. And that’s what I was doing, too!”

“What had you for food all day?”

“Just that bun. And say!! I only got half of it! That big cop was so rough!”

“Did that cop, as you call him, hurt you”

“Hurt!! I should say not!! I put up a good stiff scrap! I paid him back, blow for blow! No big gas-bag of a cop is going to wallop this kid and not pay for it!”

“But, boy, don’t your folks bring you up to know that it is wrong to rob anybody?”

“Naw! My Dad robs folks, and just got six months for it. So why shouldn’t I? It’s all right to do what your Dad will do, isn’t it?”

“Not always, boy,” and our girls in row two and our boys in row four sat sad and glum at this portrayal of youthful sin. Finally that big kindly man, thoughtfully rubbing his chin, said:-

“Whom did your Dad rob?”

“I dunno. It was a Ford car. Nobody wasn’t in it, so why not grab it? That’s what Dad said. You can pick up a bit of cash for a car, you know, boss. And say, if a car brung only six months, how long will I squat in jail for swiping this half bun? Aw! Go slow, boss! I ain’t no bad kid! Only just a hungry mutt. Gosh!! How I wish I had a glass of milk!”

From row two a young, vigorous girlish form shot out, dashing for a doorway; and as that big kindly man was still rubbing his chin, Marian burst in again, rushing, sobbingly, to that sad bunch of rags, holding out a pint of milk and two hot biscuits. A quick snatch by two horribly dirty young hands, a limp flop on a mat at that big mahogany railing, and a truly hungry child was oblivious to all around him. And I’ll say that our boys, in row four, had lumpy throats. But finally that big kindly man said:— “Though taking things unlawfully is wrong, conditions can occur in which so young a culprit is not at fault. This young chap has had no bringing up, but has run wild. A child will not know right from wrong if not taught; and, as it is a primary animal instinct to obtain food in any way, I will simply put this boy in a school which Branton Hills maintains for just such youths.”

At this both row two and row four burst out in such a storm of hand-clapping that Gadsby found that this visit had shown his young folks, from actual contact with a child without training, how important child-raising is; and how proud a city is of such as act according to law.

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