was peacefully disposed towards the other boys, who feared and venerated
him as a member of the "Clinton Street gang." He fell promptly captive
to the dark and gentle charms of Eva Gonorowsky and to the calm dominion
of Teacher. To the latter he showed a loving confidence which she met
with a broad-minded tolerance, very wonderful to his eyes in a person
of authority. She seemed really to understand the sweet reasonableness
of the reminiscences with which he entertained her. And if she sometimes
deplored the necessity of so much lying, stealing, fighting and late
hours, well so, of late, did he. She asked him quite calmly one day
what he had had for breakfast on the morning of his first day in Room
18, and how he had chanced to be so drunk, and he, with true economy,
answered two questions with one word:
"Beer."
"And where," asked Teacher, still carefully unimpressed "did you get
it? From your father?"
"Naw," said Isidore, whose manners were yet unformed "He don't never
get no beer. He ain't got a can even."
"Then where?"
"To the s'loon--"
"And which saloon?" Miss Bailey's quiet eyes betrayed no trace of her
determination that the proprietor should suffer the full penalty of
the law. "I thought little boys were not allowed into saloons."
"Well," Isidore admitted, "I ain't gone in the s'loon. I tells the
lady on our floor that my papa likes that she should lend her can und
she says, 'He's welcome, all right.' Und I gives the can on a man what
stands by the s'loon, und I says: 'My papa he has a sickness, und beer
is healthy for him. On'y he couldn't to come for buy none. You could
to take a drink for yourself.' Und the man says, 'Sure.' Und he gets
the beer und takes the drink--a _awful_ big drink--und I sets by
the curb und drinks what is in the can. It's awful nice for me."
Miss Bailey's hope for any real or lasting moral change in Isidore was
sadly shaken by this revelation. Six and a half years old and
deliberately plotting and really enjoying a drunken debauch! Surely,
the reformatory seemed inevitable. Suddenly she became conscious that
the chain of circumstance in Isidore's recital was not complete.
"But the money," she asked; "where did you get that?"
Isidore's eyes were wells of candour as he answered: "Off a lady."
"And why did she give it to you?"
"'Cause I tells her my mamma lays on the hospital und I like I should
buy her a orange on'y I ain't got no money for buy none."
"Oh, Isidore!" cried Teacher, in a voice in which horror, pity,
reproach, and wonder mingled. "And you have no mother!" And Isidore's
answer was his professional whine, most heartrending and insincere.
Gradually and carefully Teacher became slightly censorious and mildly
didactic, and slowly Isidore Diamantstein came to forsake the paths
of evil and to spend long afternoons in the serene and admiring
companionship of Morris Mogilewsky, Patrick Brennan and Nathan
Spiderwitz. But when, early in December, he found a stranded comic
valentine and presented it, blushingly, to Eva Gonorowsky, Miss Bailey
found that success was indeed most sweet.
Mr. Diamantstein's visits to the school, directed with patient futility
to the propitiation of the teachers of his older sons, always ended
in a cheering little talk with the young ruler of Room 18. To her he
confided his history, his difficulties, and his hopes. In return she
gave him advice, encouragement, and, in moments of too pressing need,
assistance. The need of this kind was, however, rare, for Mr.
Diamantstein was an expert in one of the most difficult branches of
the tailor's art, and his salary better than that of many of his
fellows.
Shortly after the incident of the valentine Mr. Diamantstein came to
Room 18 in radiant array. His frock coat was new and of a wondrous
fashion, his tan shoes were of superlative length and sharpness of
toe, both his coat and vest were open to the lowest button and turned
back to give due prominence to the bright blue shirt beneath. His hair
shone in luxurious and oiled profusion, and in the collarless band of
his shirt, a chaste diamond stud, not much larger than a butter-plate,
flashed and shimmered through his curled black beard. It was luncheon
time, and Teacher was at liberty.
"Say, Missis Pailey," he began, "what you think? I'm a loafer."
"Did you give up your position?" asked Miss Bailey, "or did you lose
it? You can easily get another, I hope."
"You not understand," cried the guest eagerly. "I was one great big
loafer," and he laid outstretched hands upon the blue bosom of his
gala shirt; "one great big loafer man."
"No, I'm afraid I don't understand," confessed Miss Bailey. "Tell me
about it."
"Vell, I was a vidder man," Mr. Diamantstein explained. "Mine vife she
die. From long she die, und I'm a vidder man. But now I marry, maybe,
again. I ain't no more a vidder man. I was a loafer on a beautiful
yonge lady."
"Oh! you're a lover, Mr. Diamantstein. Why, that's the best news I've
heard for ages! And your new wife will take care of the boys. I am so
glad!"
"She's a beautiful yonge lady," the Lothario continued; "but easy
scared! Oh, awful easy scared! So I don't tell her nothings over those
devil boys."
"Now, Mr. Diamantstein--" Teacher began admonishingly, but he
interrupted.
"I tells her like this: 'Say, ain't it nice? I got three leetle
poys--awful nice leetle poys--no one ain't never seen no better leetle
poys.' Und she says she won't marry mit me. Ain't I tell you how she's
easy scared? But I tells her all times how my leetle poys is goot, how
they makes for her the work, und the dinner, und the beds. Und now she
says she will marry mit me und I'm a loafer on a beautiful yonge uptown
lady."
The wild gesticulations of Mr. Diamantstein during this account of his
courtship and of its triumphant conclusion were wonderful to see. He
stopped now, glowing and panting, and Teacher noticed, for the first
time, that he was still a young man, and that there was some shadow
of excuse for the reckless course of the "beautiful yonge uptown lady."
"Mr. Diamantstein," she said heartily, "I wish you joy. I'm sure you
deserve it, and I hope the young lady will be as good as she is
beautiful. Bring her to see me some day, won't you?"
"Sure," said Mr. Diamantstein politely.
But ah, for the plans of mice and men! and oh, for the slip and the
lip! Within that very week the airy castle of Mr. Diamantstein's hopes
was shaken to its foundations. The cause was, of course, "them devil
poys." Julius and Nathan Diamantstein were convicted of having stolen
and offered for sale books, pencils, and paper, the property of the
Board of Education. Isidore had acted as agent and was condemned as
an accomplice. The father was sent for and the trio were expelled.
Then deep was the grief of Miss Bailey, and wild was the wailing of
Mr. Diamantstein. He tore his hair, he clung to the hem of Miss Bailey's
garment and he noted incidentally that it was of "all from wool goods,"
he cast his cherished derby upon the floor and himself upon her
protection.
"Say, Missis Pailey," he implored, "you do me the favour? You go on
the Brincipal und you say like that: 'I give him five dollars, maybe,
so he don't egspell them devil poys.'"
"But he must," Teacher answered sadly. "It is the law. They must be
expelled. But oh, Mr. Diamantstein, won't you try to take care of
Isidore?"
"Say, Missis Pailey," Mr. Diamantstein recommenced, "you do me the
favour? You go on the Brincipal und you say like that: 'I give him
five dollars, maybe, so he don't egspell the boys till the month.' It
makes mit me then nothings."
"You won't mind at the end of the month?" exclaimed Miss Bailey. "Why
not?"
"Well," said the lover tenderly, "it's over that beautiful yonge lady.
She's awful easy scared! awful easy! Und sooner she knows them boys
is egspell she don't marry no more mit me. On'y by the month she will
be married already und nothings makes then nothings. Say, I gives you
too, maybe, a nice present so you says like that on the Brincipal."
But Mr. Diamantstein's lavish promises could avail nothing and the
boys were doomed. Time passed and Isidore's place in Miss Bailey's
kingdom was taken by another American citizen in the making, and the
incident seemed closed.
On an afternoon in the first week of February, Miss Bailey, Nathan
Spiderwitz, and Morris Mogilewsky were busily putting Room 18 to rights,
when a small boy, in an elaborate sailor costume, appeared before them.
He was spotlessly clean and the handkerchief in the pocket of his
blouse was dazzling in its white abundance. Upon his brow, soap-polished
until it shone, there lay two smooth and sticky curves of auburn hair,
and on his face there played a smile of happy recognition and repressed
pride.
Miss Bailey and her ministers stood at gaze until the new comer, with
a glad cry of "Teacher, oh, mine Teacher," threw himself upon the lady,
and then surprise gave place to joy.
"Isidore, my dear boy; I'm so glad to see you! And how beautiful you
look!" cried Teacher.
"Beautiful and stylish," said Morris generously. "Sinkers on the necks
und sleeves is stylish for boys," and he gazed longingly at the neatly
embroidered anchors which adorned the sailor suit.
"Oh, yes; suits mit sinkers is awful stylish. They could to cost three
dollars. I seen 'em on Grand Street," said Nathan, and Isidore's heart
beat high beneath the "sinker" on his breast.
When the first transports of joy over the reunion had abated, Isidore
explained his presence and his appearance.
"My mamma," he began proudly, "she sets by the Principal's side und
he says, like that, you should come for see my mamma. She's new."
Teacher deftly patted her hair and stock into place, and set out in
great interest and excitement to see the "beautiful yonge uptown lady."
"Come, Isidore," she called.
"Mine name ain't Isidore," he announced "Und it ain't Issie neither,
but it's awful stylish. I gets it off my new mamma. It's a new name
too."
"Dear me," cried Miss Bailey. "What is it, then?"
"I don't know," answered Isidore. "I couldn't to say it even."
"Dear me!" cried Miss Bailey again, and hurried on.
At the door of the Principal's office Teacher halted in puzzled
surprise, for the first glance at the glowing face of the new mamma,
and the first sound of her pleasant voice, proclaimed, beyond the
shadow of a doubt, that Mrs. Lazarus Diamantstein the second was a
buxom daughter of the Island of Saints. The little sailor climbed upon
her lap, and the Principal introduced the matron to the maid. Miss
Bailey said all that etiquette demanded and that interest prompted and
Mrs. Diamantstein blushed prettily.
"Thank you kindly," she answered.
"You're very good, but I knew that before. Larry--me husband, you
know--often told me how good you were to the child."
"Ah, but you see," said Teacher, "I was very fond of Isidore."
"That's not his name at all, Miss," said Mrs. Diamantstein decidedly.
"That's a haythen name, and so I'm going to have him christened. Tell
your name to the lady, allannah."
Thus encouraged, Isidore toyed with a diamond stud, not much larger
than a butter-plate, which glittered in the new shirtwaist of his new
mamma, and uttered a perfectly unintelligible string of sounds.
"See how well he knows it," said the parent proudly. "He says his name
is Ignatius Aloysius Diamantstein. Think of him knowing it already and
him not christened until next Sunday! I'll have them all christened
at once by Father Burke, over at St. Mary's, and I came here to ask
you two things. First, knowing the liking you have for the child, I
ask you will you be godmother to Ignatius Aloysius?"
Miss Bailey felt unable to cope, all unaided, with these sudden and
bewildering changes. Isidore christened and Christianized! Isidore her
godchild! She sought inspiration in the Principal, but his shoulders
shook with unsympathetic mirth, and his face was turned away. Left to
her own puzzled guidance, she answered:
"Really, Mrs. Diamantstein, you are too good. I have been trying to
take care of--of--"
"Ignatius Aloysius," murmured the Principal. "Ye gods, and with that
face!"
"Of Ignatius," continued Miss Bailey, stifling a wild inclination
towards unseemly laughter, "and I should be delighted to be his
godmother, but--but--"
"Well, then, that's settled, and thank you Miss. And now the other
thing: Will you take Ignatius Aloysius back into your class? Larry
told me how them three children wouldn't go to school for the longest
time back, before I was married. Gettin' the little place ready for
me, he says they were, and stayin' at home to do it. The darlin's! And
lately I was too busy with one thing and another to bring them back.
But now I've got Denis and Michael, me other two boys, entered over
at the Christian Brothers' school. I was goin' to send the little
fellow there too, but he cried to come to you. Won't you take him?"
Miss Bailey appealed to the Principal. "Please," said she, "may I have
my godson, Ignatius Aloysius, in my class?"
"I shall try to arrange it so."
Mrs. Diamantstein fixed grateful eyes on Teacher. "You're a good young
lady," she repeated, with deep conviction. "And if one of them was a
girl I'd call him after you. May I make so bold as to ask your name?"
"Constance."
"Well, now, that's grand. That's a beautiful name. Himself has two
little girls in the orphans' home and I think I'll get one out and
call it that. But, maybe, I won't. But anyway, the first one I get
I'll call Constance, after you."
When Mrs. Diamantstein had taken her decorous leave of the Principal,
Miss Bailey and she walked to the great front door. As they reached
it Mrs. Diamantstein reiterated her gratitude and added: "You'll be
there at three o'clock, won't you, Miss? For we're to have a grand
time at the party after the christening. Father Burke promised to come
home to the little place with us, and Larry is goin' round now askin'
his friends. And it's the queer owld friends he has, Miss, the queerest
ever I seen, and with the queerest owld talk out of them. But sure,
the little man will enjoy himself more if he has some of his own at
the party."
"And do you mean to tell me that the man is asking his Jewish friends
to a Catholic christening?" remonstrated Miss Bailey, who had seen
something of the racial antagonism which was rending all that district.
"Sure, not at all, Miss," answered Mrs. Larry reassuringly. "Do you
think I'd tell him what the party was for? What does the poor man know
about christenings? and him, God help him, a haythen of a Jew. Make
your mind easy, Miss; it'll just be a party to him. No more than that."
"But he--all of them--will see Father Burke," Miss Bailey urged.
"And who could they see that would do them more good?" demanded Mrs.
Diamantstein belligerently. "Cock them up then. It's not often they'd
be let into the one room with a saint of a man like that. They'll
likely be the better of it for all the rest of their poor dark days."
Teacher made one more effort towards fair play. "I think," she
persisted, "that you ought to tell your husband what you intend to do.
It would be dreadful if, after all your trouble, he should not let you
change the boys' religion."
"Let, indeed!" cried the bride warmly. "He can wait to do that until
he's asked. I'd be long sorry to have a man like that with no bringing
up of his own, as you might say, comin' between me and me duty in the
sight of God. 'Let,' is it?" And the broad shoulders of Bridget
Diamantstein stiffened while her clear eye flashed. "Well, I'm fond
enough of that little man, but I'd break his sewin'-machine and dance
on his derby before I'd see him bring up the darlin's for black
Protestant Jews like himself."
And across the space of many weeks, Mr. Diamantstein's voice rang again
in Teacher's ears: "She's a beautiful yonge uptown lady, but easy
scared. Oh, awful easy scared!"
Well, love was ever blind.
H.R.H. THE PRINCE OF HESTER STREET
"It will be difficult," said Miss Bailey, gently insubordinate, "very
difficult. I have already a register of fifty-eight and seats for only
fifty. It is late in the term, too; the children read and write quite
easily. And you say this new boy has never been at school?"
"Never," admitted the Principal. "His people are rather distrustful
of us. Some religious prejudice, I believe. They are the strictest of
the strict. The grandfather is a Rabbi and has been educating the
boy--an only child, by the way."
"Put him in the kindergarten," Miss Bailey interjected hopefully.
"No," answered the Principal, "he's too old for that."
"Then let him wait until he can enter with the beginners in September.
He will be really unhappy when he finds himself so far behind the
others here."
"I'm afraid I must ask you to take him now," the Principal persisted.
"His father, the Assemblyman for this district, sees some advantage
in sending his boy to school with the children of his supporters. But,
of course, I shan't expect you to bring the child up to the grade.
Just let him stay here and be happy. If you will send your roll-book
to my office I will have him entered."
And so it chanced, on an afternoon of early March, that the name of
Isaac Borrachsohn was added--all unalphabetically--at the end of the
roll-call of the First Reader Class.
A writing lesson was in progress on the next morning when the new boy
arrived. Miss Bailey, during her six months' reign over Room 18, had
witnessed many first appearances, but never had charge of hers been
borne into court on such a swelling tide of female relatives. The
rather diminutive Teacher was engulfed in black-jetted capes, twinkling
ear-rings, befeathered hats, warmly gleaming faces, and many flounced
skirts, while the devoted eyes of the First Reader Class caught but
fleeing glimpses of its sovereign between the red roses rising, quite
without visible support, above agitated bonnets.
Against this background Isaac glowed like a bird-of-paradise. The
writing lesson halted. Bluntly pointed pencils paused in mid-air or
between surprise-parted lips, and the First Reader Class drew deep
breaths of awe and admiration: for the new boy wore the brightest and
tightest of red velvet Fauntleroy suits, the most bouffant of underlying
shirts, the deepest of lace collars, the most straightly cut of
Anglo-Saxon coiffures, the most far-reaching of sailor hats. Sadie
Gonorowsky, the haughty Sadie, paused open-eyed in her distribution
of writing papers. Morris Mogilewsky, the gentle Morris, abstractedly
bit off and swallowed a piece of the gold-fish food. Isidore
Belchatosky, the exquisite Isidore, passed a stealthy hand over his
closely cropped red head and knew that his reign was over.
Miss Bailey determined, in view of the frightened expression in the
new-comer's eyes, to forgive his inopportune enlistment. At her cordial
words of welcome the alarm spread from his wide eyes to his trembling
lips, and Teacher turned to the relatives to ask: "Doesn't he speak
English?"
There ensued much babbling and gesticulation. Isaac was volubly
reproved, and then one of the younger and befeathered aunts made answer.
"Sure does he. Only he was bashful, and when he should get sooner over
it he English just like you speaks. Just like you he speaks. He is a
good boy. Where is he goin' to sit? Where is his place?"
Miss Bailey reflected with dismay that there was not an unassigned
desk in the room. Fortunately, however, Patrick Brennan was absent on
that morning--he was "making the mission" at St. Mary's church with
his mother--and his queer assortment of string, buttons, pencil stumps,
and a mute and battered mouth-organ, were swept into a drawer of
Teacher's desk. Isaac was installed in this hastily created vacancy,
the gratified relatives withdrew, and the writing lesson was resumed.
When Isaac found himself cut entirely away from the maternal
apron-strings, his impulse was towards the relief of tears, but his
wandering gaze encountered the admiring eyes of Eva Gonorowsky and his
aimless hand came in contact with the hidden store of chewing-gum with
which the absent Patrick was won't to refresh himself, lightly attached
to the under surface of the chair. Isaac promptly applied it to the
soothing of his spirits, and decided that a school which furnished
such dark and curly locked neighbours and such delectable sustenance
was a pleasant place. So he accepted a long pencil from Sarah Schrodsky,
and a sheet of paper from Sadie Gonorowsky, and fell to copying the
writing on the board.
While he laboured--quite unsuccessfully, since all his grandsire's
instructions had been in Hebrew--Miss Bailey passed from desk to desk
on a tour of inspection and exhortation, slightly annoyed and surprised
to find that the excitement consequent upon Isaac Borrachsohn's
introduction had not yet subsided. Eva Gonorowsky was flagrantly
inattentive, and Teacher paused to point an accusing finger at the
very erratic markings which she had achieved.
"Eva," said she, "why do you keep your writing so very far from the
line?"
"I ain't so big," Eva responded meekly, "und so I makes mistakes. I
tells you 'scuse."
"Honey," responded Miss Bailey, her wrath quite turned away by this
soft answer, "you could do beautifully if you would only look at the
board instead of staring at the new boy."
"Yiss ma'am," acquiesced Eva. "But, oh, Teacher, Missis Bailey, _ain't_
he the sweet dude!"
"Do you think so? Well, you need not stop writing to look at him,
because you will be seeing him every day.
"In this class? Oh, ain't that fine!" Eva whispered. "My, ain't his
mamma put him on nice mit red-from-plush suits and stylish hair-cuts!"
"Well, Isidore Belchatosky has a velvet suit," said the gentle-hearted
Miss Bailey, as she noticed the miserable eyes of the deposed beau
travelling from his own frayed sleeve to the scarlet splendour across
the aisle.
"But's it's black," sneered the small coquette, and Teacher was only
just in time to snatch Isidore's faultless writing from the deluge of
his bitter tears.
When the First Reader Class filed down the yard for recess, Miss Bailey
was disgusted to find that Isaac Borrachsohn's admiring audience
increased until it included every boy in the school young enough to
be granted these twenty minutes of relaxation during the long morning.
He was led away to a distant corner, there to receive tribute of
deference, marbles, candy, tops, and political badges. But he spoke
no word. Silently and gravely he held court. Gravely and silently he
suffered himself to be led back to Room 18. Still silently and still
gravely he went home at twelve o'clock.
At a quarter before one on that day, while Morris Mogilewsky and Nathan
Spiderwitz, Monitors of Gold-Fish and Window Boxes, were waiting
dejectedly for the opening of the school doors and reflecting that
they must inevitably find themselves supplanted in their sovereign's
regard--for Teacher, though an angel, was still a woman, and therefore
sure to prefer gorgeously arrayed ministers--there entered to them
Patrick Brennan, fortified by the morning's devotion, and reacting
sharply against the morning's restraint.
"Fellars," he began jubilantly; "I know where we can hook a banana.
And the Ginney's asleep. Come on!"
His colleagues looked at him with lack-lustre eyes. "I don't need no
bananas," said Morris dispiritedly. "They ain't so awful healthy fer
me."
"Me too," Nathan agreed. "I et six once und they made me a sickness."
"Bananas!" urged Patrick. "Bananas, an' the man asleep! What's the
matter with ye anyway?"
"There's a new boy in our class," Morris answered. "Und he's a dude.
Und Teacher's lovin' mit him."
"Und he sets in your place," added Nathan.
"I'll break his face if he tries it again," cried Patrick hotly. "Who
let him sit there?"
"Teacher," wailed Morris. "Ain't I tell you how she's lovin' mit him?"
"And where's all _my_ things?" Patrick demanded with pardonable
curiosity. "Where am I to sit?"
"She makes you should set by her side," Morris reassured him. "Und
keep your pencil in her desk. It could be awful nice fer you. You sets
right by her."
"I'll try it for a day or two," said Patrick grandly. "I'll see how
I'll like it."