"I have no home," he quickly answered.
"You hear?" I turned to Cram.
"If he has no home let him go and get one," was the angry retort.
"Therefore he applied to charity," I permitted myself to say.
"This is no place for vagabonds," Cram explained, without looking at me.
"He must have an address so we can send an investigator and see whether
it is a worthy case."
"Well, but if he has no home?"
"Then he cannot obtain charity. This is our rule."
Again Cram fumbled in his desk, gave the man back his application and
wrote on top of it: "Go upstairs."
With a stupid look on his face the man stood with the paper in hand and
did not know what to do or what it all meant. Cram showed him the door.
The man stood stupidly. Cram rang a bell--an office boy came. "Lead him
upstairs," was the order; "he's deaf."
The office boy took the man by the hand. "Come on upstairs," and
jokingly to Cram, "They have spread the table for you there."
Soon I heard his heavy steps on the stairs.
"Will they give him something upstairs?" I inquired.
"They'll give him in the neck," he laughed. "They'll put him out."
"Why don't you help him? The charities are here for that," I said.
"My dear friend, you don't understand this business yet," the
investigator said. "We don't take stock in his deafness. It's a fake, an
old trick."
"Yes, but his certificate proves something, doesn't it?"
"I didn't see it," Cram answered.
"But he wanted to show it to you, did he not?"
"Yes, but I did not want to see it. It's all a fake. Wait, when you have
been in the business long enough you will not speak that way." Again he
fumbled in his desk.
I looked at him. He had eyes, a nose and a mouth--a face--yet he did not
look human to me. What was missing anyway? And as I did not then know
what charities were really for, I thought at that moment:
"This place is for a human being with a big heart, that could feel the
pain of every sufferer--a human being with a desire to help his fellow
creatures--who would speak to him who comes to apply for help words that
would be like balsam, who would feel ashamed that he has a home and
bread to eat while others are walking the streets, hungry and homeless.
Surely 'upstairs' they do not know how this man treats the applicants.
They surely don't know--they don't know."
Presently a young girl, an employee of the office, came to Cram's desk
and said a few words to him. His face lit up and became human, his voice
sounded sweet, and there was so much affection in the look he gave her
that I was astonished. I had just thought of him as a brute. He had just
behaved so to the old man. But as the rays of the sun from the little
window fell on them both it lit my heart with hope. "He is too young--he
will learn the truth in time," I thought.
No sooner had the girl gone away than his face again took on a stony
composure, and when he again called out the name of an applicant his
voice was again harsh and cold as iron.
"Roll--Ida Roll, come here."
A woman, shabbily dressed, with her face almost covered by the big shawl
she wore over her head and shoulders, approached the desk. Cram looked
at her for a few seconds. A tremor passed through the woman's frame at
his scrutiny. She bit her lips and nervously rubbed her hands against
the desk.
"What's your name?"
"Ida Rohl."
Cram made a little mark on the application.
"Where do you live?"
"Madison Street--No.--"
"Where does your brother live?"
"I have no brother."
"Where does your sister live?"
"I have no sister."
"How much does your oldest son earn a week?"
"My oldest son is only thirteen years old."
"What's the name of your husband?"
"My husband is dead."
"When did he die?"
"Four years ago."
"Did you marry again?"
"No, sir."
"Mind you," he warned her, "we are going to investigate and if we find
out that you have married," and he shook his finger in her face.
"How many children have you?"
"Three--the oldest of them is thirteen."
"And how did you live till now without applying to charity?"
"I worked at the machine."
"Why don't you work now?" and turning to me he explained: "You see? Four
years she has worked and supported herself. Now some one has told her
of the existence of the charities, so she does not want to work any
longer. She thinks she has a good case. A widow--three children--and,"
whispering in my ears in a confidential tone, "you'll hear her say soon
that she is sick--sick--that's what they all claim. All are sick."
Meanwhile he cleaned his pipe.
"Well, why don't you answer? Why don't you work now? Tell me--did you
get tired--or do you think begging a better trade?"
"I am sick."