Miss Bailey, to read from her reader, to write at her desk, to look
grandly down upon his fellows, and to smile with condescension upon
Eva Gonorowsky. But when Teacher opened her book of Fairy Tales and
led the way to the land of magic Patrick discovered that the chewing
gum, with which he was accustomed to refresh himself on these journeys,
was gone. Automatically he swept his hand across the under surface of
his chair. It was not there. He searched the drawer in which his
treasures had been bestowed. Nor there. He glanced at the usurper in
his rightful place, and saw that the jaws of Isaac moved rhythmically
and placidly. Hot anger seized Patrick. He rose deliberately upon his
sturdy legs and slapped the face of that sweet dude so exactly and
with such force that the sound broke upon the quiet air like the crack
of a revolver. Teacher, followed by the First Reader Class, rushed
back from Fairy Land, and the next few minutes were devoted to
separating the enraged Patrick from the terrified Isaac, who, in the
excitement of the onslaught, had choked upon the _casus belli_,
and could make neither restitution nor explanation. When Isaac was
reduced, at the cost of much time and petting on Miss Bailey's part,
to that stage of consolation in which departing grief takes the form
of loud sobs, closely resembling hiccoughs and as surprising to the
sufferer as to his sympathizers, Patrick found himself in universal
disfavour. The eyes of the boys, always so loyal, were cold. The eyes
of the girls, always so admiring, were reproachful. The eyes of Miss
Bailey, always so loving, were hard and angry. Teacher professed herself
too grieved and surprised to continue the interrupted story, and Patrick
was held responsible for the substitution of a brisk mental arithmetic
test in which he was easily distanced by every boy and girl in the
room. But Isaac was still silent. No halcyon suggestion beginning,
"Suppose I were to give you a dollar and you spent half of it for
candy," no imaginary shopping orgie, could tempt him into speech.
It was nearly three o'clock when at last he found his voice. In an
idle inspection of his new desk he came upon one of those combinations
of a pen, a pencil, and an eraser, which gladden the young and aggravate
the old. It was one of Patrick's greatest treasures and had long been
Eva's envious desire, and now Patrick, chained to the side of his
indignant Teacher, saw this precious, delicate, and stubborn mechanism
at the mercy of his clumsy successor. Isaac wrenched and twisted without
avail; Patrick's wrath grew dark; Eva shyly proffered assistance;
Patrick's jealousy flamed hot. And then, before Patrick's enraged eyes,
Eva and Isaac tore the combination of writing implements to fragments,
in their endeavour to make it yield a point. Patrick darted upon the
surprised Isaac like an avenging whirlwind, and drove a knotty little
fist into the centre of the Fauntleroy costume. And then, quite
suddenly, Isaac lifted up his voice:
"Don't you dast to touch me," he yelled, "you--Krisht fool."
Miss Bailey sprang to her feet, but before she could reach the offender
he had warmed to his work and was rolling off excerpts from remarks
which he had heard at his father's club-rooms. These were, of course,
in Hebrew, but after much hissing and many gutturals, he arrived,
breathless, at the phrase as Anglo-Saxon as his hair:
"You be--! Go to--!"
[Illustration: "DON'T YOU DAST TO TOUCH ME," HE YELLED]
[Illustration: "LOOK AT YOUR BACK!"]
Of all Miss Bailey's rules for the government of her kingdom the most
stringent were against blasphemy. Never had her subjects seen their
gentle lady so instinct with wrath as she was when holding the wriggling
arm of Patrick with one hand and the red plush shoulder of Isaac with
the other, she resumed her place in the chair of authority. She leaned
forward until her eyes, angry and determined, were looking close into
Patrick's, and began:
"You first. You commenced this thing. Now listen. If you ever touch
that boy again--I don't care for what reason--I will whip you. Here,
before the whole class, I shall spank you. Do you understand?"
"Yes," said Patrick.
"And now you," turning quickly to Isaac. "If you ever again dare to
say bad words in this room I shall wash out the mouth you soil in
saying them. Do you understand?"
Isaac was silent.
"Do you understand?" repeated Miss Bailey. Isaac spoke no word; gave
no sign of comprehension.
"Morris," called Teacher, "come and tell him that in Jewish for me,"
and Morris, with many halts and shy recoilings, whispered a few words
into the ear of Isaac, who remonstrated volubly.
"He says he ain't said no bad word," the interpreter explained. "His
papa says like that on his mamma, and his mamma says like that on his
papa. Fer him, that ain't no bad word."
"It is a bad word here," said Teacher inexorably. "Tell him I'll wash
out his mouth if he says it again."
Miss Bailey was so ruffled and disgusted by the course of events that
she allowed only the Monitor of the Gold-Fish Bowl to stay with her
after school that afternoon. When readers were counted and put upon
shelves, charts furled, paint brushes washed, pencils sharpened, and
blackboards cleaned, Morris pressed close to his lady and whispered:
"Say, Teacher, I should tell you somethings."
"Well, then, old man, tell it."
"Teacher, it's like this; I ain't tell Ikey, out of Jewish, how you
says you should wash out his mouth."
"You didn't tell him? And why not, pray?"
"Well," and Morris's tone, though apologetic, was self-righteous, "I
guess you don't know about Ikey Borrachsohn."
"I know he said two very bad things. Of course, I did not understand
the Jewish part. What did he say? Did you know?"
"Sure did I, on'y I wouldn't to tell it out. It ain't fer you. It ain't
no fer-ladies word."
Miss Bailey patted her small knight's hand. "Thank you, Morris," she
said simply. "And so it was bad?"
"Fierce."
"Very well; I shall ask some other boy to tell him that I shall wash
out his mouth."
"Well," Morris began as before, "I guess you don't know 'bout Isaac
Borrachsohn. You dassent to wash out his mouth, 'cause his grandpa's
a Rabbi."
"I know he is. Is that any reason for Isaac's swearing?"
"His papa," Morris began in an awed whisper, "his papa's the King of
Hester Street."
"Well," responded Teacher calmly, "that makes no difference to me. No
one may swear in this room. And now, Morris, you must run home. Your
mother will be wondering where you are."
Three minutes later Morris's dark head reappeared. His air was deeply
confidential. "Teacher, Missis Bailey," he began, "I tells you 'scuse."
"Well, dear, what is it?" asked Miss Bailey with divided interest, as
she adjusted a very large hat with the guidance of a very small
looking-glass. "What do you want?"
Again Morris hesitated. "I guess," he faltered; "I guess you don't
know 'bout Isaac Borrachsohn."
"What has happened to him? Is he hurt?"
"It's his papa. Ain't I told you he's the King of Hester Street und
he's got dancing balls. My mamma und all the ladies on our block they
puts them on stylish und goes on the ball. Und ain't you see how he's
got a stylish mamma mit di'monds on the hair?"
"Yes," admitted Miss Bailey, "I saw the diamonds." Not to have seen
the paste buckle which menaced Mrs. Borrachsohn's left eye would have
been to be blind indeed.
"Und extra, you says you should wash out his mouth," Morris
remonstrated. "I guess, maybe, you fools."
"You'll see," said Miss Bailey blithely. "And now trot along, my dear.
Good afternoon."
Teacher hurried into her jacket and was buttoning her gloves when the
Monitor of the Gold-Fish Bowl looked timidly in.
"What now?" asked Teacher.
"Well," said Morris, and breathed hard,
"I guess you don't know 'bout Isaac Borrachsohn."
Miss Bailey fell away into helpless laughter. "That would not be your
fault, honey, even if it were true," she said. "But what has he been
doing since I saw you?"
"It's his papa," answered Morris. "His papa's got p'rades."
"He has what?"
"P'rades."
"And are they very bad? I never heard of them."
"You don't know what is p'rades?" cried Morris. "Won't your mamma leave
you see them?"
"What are they?" asked Teacher. "Did you ever see them?"
"Sure I seen p'rades. My papa he takes me in his hand und I stands by
the curb und looks on the p'rade. It goes by night. Comes mans und
comes cops und comes George Wash'ton und comes Ikey Borrachsohn's papa,
mit proud looks--he makes polite bows mit his head on all the peoples,
und comes Teddy Rosenfelt. Und comes cows und more cops und ladies und
el'fints, und comes Captain Dreyfus und Terry McGovern. Und comes mans,
und mans, und mans--a great big all of mans--und they says: 'What's
the matter with Ikey Borrachsohn's papa?'--he ain't got no sickness,
Miss Bailey, on'y it's polite you say like that on p'rades. Und more
mans they says: 'Nothings is mit him. He's all right!' That is what
is p'rades. Ikey's papa's got them, und so you _dassent_ to wash
out his mouth."
"One more bad word," was Teacher's ultimatum; "one more and then I'll
do it."
Miss Bailey's commands were not lightly disregarded, and Patrick Brennan
spent the ensuing week in vain endeavour to reconcile himself to a
condition of things in which he, the first born of the policeman on
the beat, and therefore by right of heredity a person of importance
in the realm, should tamely submit to usurpation and insult on the
part of this mushroom sprig of moneyed aristocracy, this sissy kid in
velvet pants, this long-haired dummy of an Isaac Borrachsohn. Teacher
could not have meant to cut him off from all hope of vengeance. If she
had--then she must be shown that the honour of the house of Brennan
was a thing beyond even her jurisdiction. A Brennan had been insulted
in his person and in his property. Of course, he must have satisfaction.
If Morris could have known that Patrick, of whom he was so fond, was
plotting evil against the heir-apparent to the throne of Hester Street,
he might have persuaded that scion of the royal house of Munster to
stay his hand. But the advice of Patrick pere had always been: "Lay
low until you see a good chanst, an' then sock it to 'em good and
plenty." So Patrick _fils_ bided his time and continued to "make the
mission" with his pious mother.
After his initial speech in his English, so like Miss Bailey's, Isaac
Borrachsohn resumed his cloak of silence and spoke no more of the
language of the land. Even in his own tongue he was far from garrulous.
And yet his prestige continued to increase, his costumes grew ever
more gorgeous, and his slaves--both male and female--daily more
numerous. In reading and in "Memory Gems" his progress was, under the
veil of speechlessness, imperceptible, but in writing and in all the
prescribed branches of Manual Training he acquired a proficiency which
made it impossible to return him to his royal sire. Gradually it was
borne in upon Miss Bailey that she had met her Waterloo--a child who
would have none of her. All her attempts at friendliness were met by
the same stolid silence, the same impersonal regard, until in
desperation, she essayed a small store of German phrases, relics of
her sophomore days. Six faulty sentences, with only the most remote
bearing upon the subject in hand, were more efficacious than volumes
of applied psychology, and the reserve of Isaac Borrachsohn vanished
before the rising conviction that Teacher belonged to his own race.
How otherwise, he demanded, could she speak such beautiful Hebrew?
When Morris translated this tribute to Patrick, a flame of anger and
of hope lit up that Celtic soul. Such an accusation brought against
Miss Bailey, whom he had heard his noble father describe as "one of
ourselves, God bless her!" was bitter to hear, but the Knight of Munster
comforted himself with the conviction that Teacher would no longer
shield the sissy from the retribution he now had doubly earned. But
it should be a retribution fitted to the offender and in proportion
to the offence. Long experience of Jewish playfellows had taught Patrick
a revenge more fiendish than a beating, a ducking, a persecution by
"de gang," or a confiscation of goods and treasures. All of these were
possible and hard to bear, but for Isaac's case something worse was
needed.
He should be branded with a cross! Fortune, after weeks of
frowning, was with Patrick on that warm April afternoon. Isaac was
attired in a white linen costume so short of stocking and of
knickerbockers as to exhibit surprising area of fat leg, so fashionable
in its _tout ensemble_ as to cause Isidore Belchatosky to weep aloud,
so spotless as to prompt Miss Bailey to shield it with her own "from
silk" apron when the painting lesson commenced. Patrick Brennan had
obeyed his father's injunction to "lay low" so carefully that Teacher
granted a smiling assent to his plea to be allowed to occupy the place,
which chanced to be empty, immediately behind Isaac's.
On each little desk Miss Bailey, assisted by her whole corps of
monitors, placed a sheet of drawing paper, a little pan containing
India ink dissolved in water, and a fat Japanese paint brush. The class
was delighted, for, with the possible exception of singing, there was
no more popular occupation. Briskly the First Reader Class fell to
work. Carefully they dipped brushes in ink. Bravely they commenced to
draw. Teacher passed from desk to desk encouraging the timid,
restraining the rash.
Patrick dug his brush deep down into his ink, lifted it all wet and
dripping, cast a furtive glance at Teacher's averted head, and set
stealthily to work at the bent and defenceless back of Isaac
Borrachsohn's spotless suit. From shoulder to shoulder he drew a thick
black mark. Then another from straight cropped hair to patent leather
belt. Mrs. Borrachsohn belonged to the school of mothers who believed
in winter underwear until the first of June, and Isaac felt nothing.
But Eva Gonorowsky saw and shuddered, hiding her eyes from the symbol
and the desecration. Patrick glowered at her, filled his brush again,
bent quickly down, and branded the bare and mottled legs of his enemy
with two neatly crossed strokes.
In an instant the room was in an uproar. Patrick, his face and hands
daubed with ink, was executing a triumphant war-dance around Isaac,
who, livid and inarticulate with rage, was alternately struggling for
words and making wondrous Delsartean attempts to see his outraged back.
"I socked it to you good and plenty!" chanted Patrick in shrill victory.
"Look at your back! Look at your leg! It's ink! It won't come off! It
will never come off! Look at your back!"
Miss Bailey clanged the bell, caught Patrick by the waist-line, thrust
him under her desk, fenced him in with a chair, and turned to Isaac
who had only just realized the full horror of his plight. Isidore
Belchatosky and Eva Gonorowsky had torn off the white tunic--thereby
disclosing quantities of red flannel--and exhibited its desecrated
back. And speech, English speech returned to the Prince of Hester
Street. Haltingly at first, but with growing fluency he cursed and
swore and blasphemed; using words of whose existence Teacher had never
heard or known and at whose meaning she could but faintly guess. Eva
began to whimper; Nathan lifted shocked eyes to Teacher; Patrick kicked
away the barricading chair and, still armed with the inky brush, sprang
into the arena, and it was not until five minutes later that gentle
peace settled down on Room 18.
Miss Bailey had received full parental authority from the policeman
on the beat and she felt that the time for its exercise had come.
"Patrick," she commanded. "Position!" And the Leader of the Line stood
forth stripped of his rank and his followers, but not of his dauntless
bearing.
Teacher, with a heavy heart, selected the longest and lightest of her
rulers and the review continued.
"Hips firm!" was the next command, and Patrick's grimy hands sprang
to his hips.
"Trunk forward--bend!" Patrick doubled like a jack-knife and Miss
Bailey did her duty.
When it was over she was more distressed than was her victim. "Patrick,
I'm so sorry this happened," said she. "But you remember that I warned
you that I should whip you if you touched Isaac. Well, you did and I
did. You know--all the children know--that I always keep my word."
"Yiss ma'an," murmured the frightened First Reader Class.
"Always?" asked Patrick.
"Always," said Miss Bailey.
"Then wash out his mouth," said Patrick, pointing to the gloating
Isaac, who promptly ceased from gloating.
"Oh, that reminds me," cried Teacher, "of something I want you to do.
Will you tell Isaac you are sorry for spoiling his new suit?"
"Sure," answered Patrick readily. "Say, Isaac, I'm sorry. Come and git
your mouth washed."
"Well," Miss Bailey temporized, "his clothes are ruined. Don't you
think you could forgive him without the washing?"
"Sure," answered Patrick again. "Ain't it too bad that you can't, too!
But you said it and now you've got to do it. Like you did about me,
you know. Where's the basin? I'll fill it."
Teacher was fairly trapped, but, remembering that Isaac's provocation
had been great, she determined to make the ordeal as bearable as
possible. She sent for some water, selected a piece of appetizing rose
pink soap, a relic of her Christmas store, and called Isaac, who, when
he guessed the portent of all these preliminaries, suffered a shocking
relapse into English. Nerved by this latest exhibition, Miss Bailey
was deaf to the wails of Isaac and unyielding to the prayers and
warnings of Morris and to the frantic sympathy of Eva Gonorowsky.
"Soap ain't fer us," Morris cried. "It ain't fer us. We don't ever
make like you makes mit soap!"
"I noticed that," said Teacher dryly. "I really think you are afraid
of soap and water. When I finish with Isaac you will all see how good
it is for boys and girls to be washed."
"But not in the mouth! Oh, Missis Bailey, soap in the mouth ain't fer
us."
"Nonsense, honey," answered Teacher; "it will only clean his teeth and
help him to remember not to say nasty words." And, all unaware of the
laws of "kosher" and of "traef," the distinctions between clean and
unclean, quite as rigorous as, and much more complicated than, her
own, Constance Bailey washed out the mouth of her royal charge, and,
it being then three o'clock, dismissed her awed subjects and went
serenely home.
On his progress towards the palace of his sire, Isaac Borrachsohn,
with Christian symbols printed large upon his person, alienated nine
loyal Hebrew votes from his father's party and collected a following
of small boys which nearly blocked the narrow streets. The crosses
were bad enough, but when it was made clear that the contamination,
in the form of bright pink soap, had penetrated to the innermost
recesses of the heir of the Barrachsohns, the aunts, in frozen horror,
turned for succour and advice to the Rabbi. But he could only confirm
their worst fears. "Soap," said he, "is from the fat of pigs. Our boy
is defiled. To-morrow he must be purified at the synagogue. I told you
it was a Christian school."
Then did the Assemblyman quail before the reproach of his women. Then
did he bite his nails in indecision and remorse and swear to be revenged
upon the woman who had dared so to pollute his son. Then did Isaac
weep continuously, noisily, but ineffectually for, on the morrow, to
the synagogue he went.
Miss Bailey, when she saw that he was absent, was mildly
self-reproachful and uneasy. If she could have known of the long and
complicated rites and services which she had brought upon the boy who
had been entrusted to her to be kept happy and out of mischief, she
might not have listened so serenely to the janitor's announcement two
days later.
"Borrachsohn and a whole push of women, and an old bird with a beard,
are waitin' for you in the boys' yard," he whispered with great
_empressement_. "I sent them there," he explained, "because they
wouldn't fit anywhere else. There's about a hundred of them."
Mr. Borrachsohn's opening remark showed that the force of Isaac's speech
was hereditary. "Are you the ---- ---- young woman who's been playing
such fool tricks with my son? You'll wish you minded your own ----
business before I get through with you."
The belligerent attitude was reflected by the phalanx of female
relatives, whose red roses waved in defiance now, as they had nodded
in amity a few short weeks before. For an instant Teacher did not grasp
the full meaning of Mr. Borrachsohn's greeting. Then suddenly she
realized that this man, this trafficker in the blood and the honour
of his people, had dared to swear at her, Constance Bailey. When her
eyes met those of the Assemblyman he started slightly, and placed Isaac
between him and this alarming young person who seemed not at all to
realize that he could "break her" with a word.
"Is this your child?" she demanded. And he found himself answering
meekly:
"Yes ma'an."
"Then take him away," she commanded. "He is not fit to be with decent
children. I refuse to teach him."
"You can't refuse," said Mr. Borrachsohn. "It is the law--"
[Illustration: "YOU'LL WISH YOU MINDED YOUR OWN ---- BUSINESS BEFORE
I GET THROUGH WITH YOU"]
[Illustration: Morris Mogilewsky]
"Law!" repeated Teacher. "What is the law to you?" She was an open-eyed
young person; she had spent some months in Mr. Borrachsohn's district;
she had a nasty energy of phrase; and the King of Hester Street has
never translated the ensuing remarks to the wife of his bosom nor to
the gentle-eyed old Rabbi who watched, greatly puzzled by his ideal
of a Christian persecutor and this very different reality. Gradually
the relatives saw that the accuser had become the accused, but they
were hardly prepared to see him supplicating and even unsuccessfully.
"No, I won't take him. I tell you his language is awful. I can't let
the other children hear him."
"But I shall see that he swears no more. We taught him for a joke.
I'll stop him."
"I'm afraid you can't."
"Well, you try him. Try him for two weeks. He is a good boy; he will
swear no more."
"Very well," was Teacher's ungracious acquiescence; "I shall try him
again. And if he should swear--"
"You will not wash out his mouth--"
"I shall, and this time I shall use hot water and sapolio and washing
soda."
Mr. Borrachsohn smiled blandly and turned to explain this dictum to
his clan. And the dazed Miss Bailey saw the anger and antagonism die
out of the faces before her and the roses above them, heard Mr.
Borrachsohn's gentle, "We would be much obliged if you will so much
accommodate us," saw the Rabbi lift grateful eyes to the ceiling and
clasp his hands, saw Mrs. Borrachsohn brush away a tear of joy, and
felt Isaac's soft and damp little palm placed within her own by the
hand of his royal sire, saw the jetted capes, the flounced skirts, and
befeathered hats follow the blue and brass buttons of the janitor, the
broadcloth of the Assemblyman and the alpaca of the Rabbi, heard the
door close with a triumphant bang, saw the beaming face of the returning
janitor, and heard his speech of congratulation:
"I heard it all; I was afraid to leave you alone with them. Will you
excuse me, Miss Bailey, if I just pass the remark that you're a living
wonder?"
Still densely puzzled and pondering as to whether she could hope ever
to understand these people, she sought the Principal and told him the
whole story. "And now why," she asked, "did he make such a fuss about
the washing only to yield without a struggle at the end?"
The Principal laughed. "You are mistaken," said he. "Mr. Borrachsohn
gained his point and you most gracefully capitulated."
"I," cried Teacher; "I yield to that horrid man! Never! I said I should
use soda and sapolio--"
"Precisely," the Principal acquiesced. "And both soda and sapolio are
kosher--lawful, clean. Miss Bailey, oh, Miss Bailey, you can never
be haughty and lofty again, for you met 'that horrid man' in open battle
and went weakly down before him."
THE LAND OF HEART'S DESIRE
Isaac Borrachsohn, that son of potentates and of Assemblymen, had been
taken to Central Park by a proud uncle. For weeks thereafter he was
the favourite bard of the First Reader Class and an exceeding great
trouble to its sovereign, Miss Bailey, who found him now as garrulous
as he had once been silent. There was no subject in the Course of Study
to which he could not correlate the wonders of his journey, and Teacher
asked herself daily and in vain whether it were more pedagogically
correct to encourage "spontaneous self-expression" or to insist upon
"logically essential sequence."