"And where does she go every day?"
"In town."
"Does she stay out late at night?"
"I don't know."
"Do men come often to the house?"
"Sometimes."
"Is she sometimes drunk? I mean, does she use whisky? Is there whisky in
the house?"
"Not that I know of."
"Does she smoke cigarettes?"
"No."
"Is she visiting the moving picture houses?"
"No--never."
To whom are these questions put? To the children of the poor. The "she"
referred to is the mother, and the child is often not older than eight
years, and sometimes younger. And who puts the questions? The
investigators, of course.
On the information of a neighbour that Mrs. S. "eats meat every day and
goes to the moving pictures," a widow's pension was cut off and she was
submitted to the test.
A few days later, when the mattress and broken chairs were on the
street the woman was in the office crying, tearing her hair and beating
her heart. She begged the Manager, she begged the
investigator--"Pity--pity--have pity on me and my children." But they
turned a deaf ear. When the poor woman got beyond control the janitor
was called to help and he made it short. He put her out.
For more than an hour she sat outside on the steps. Then suddenly she
got up and disappeared. A half hour after she was back again, but not
alone. She had brought her three children--a little boy of five and two
girls, one seven and the other nine years old. She wanted to go in, but
the janitor, acting on the orders given, did not let her pass the door.
When she once had put her foot between sill and door he simply beat her
off. Her screams and cries could have melted a heart of stone, but not
that of a janitor of a charity institution. They are picked men, of a
special brand.
I spoke to the investigator and tried to convince her that the test had
gone far enough, but she was not satisfied.
"That woman," she said, "is acting--acting her part. I am not going to
be taken in. No, she would not fool me."
Then suddenly she ran out and through the open door I saw how she
literally tore away the three children from their mother's hands and
when the mother wanted to follow her little ones the door was slammed
and caught the fingers of the unfortunate woman. She screamed, the
children screeched and all the other applicants ran to the door,
wailing, crying--but the investigator ordered them all away. Only the
janitor finally took pity and brought a wet towel to wrap around the
injured hand. However, she was not let in. The investigator dragged the
three little ones away to her room.
I don't know why I was under the impression of seeing a wolf carrying
away three little chicks to his den.
She brought them to her room and when she saw me coming she slammed the
door and remained alone with them. From outside I heard the children
crying and the questioning intonation of their torturer. She changed her
tactics every minute. First she was sweet and promising, then loud and
menacing, then again persuading, convincing, suddenly threatening,
intimidating--a real Scarpia in petticoats.
Meanwhile the mother stood outside, a wet towel on her arm, crying and
beating with her head the heavy closed door. It was the hour when the
"committee" was going home. An automobile stopped at the door and the
Manager majestically descended the broad stone steps, seated himself
comfortably on the cushioned seat, buttoned his coat and beckoned to the
driver. A few seconds later he was enveloped in a cloud of dust.
After all, why not speak simply? From where all that money? Even if it
is only from the salary, does it not prove that he is getting too much?
Isn't that money destined to pay for other things than gasoline, and a
liveried chauffeur? Has any one of those that bequeathed a certain
amount of money to an institution written in his will that a proportion
of the money shall go for gasoline, liveried chauffeurs and high
salaries? Of course, a certain amount of money is necessary for
expenses, but is there no reason to feel that there is "something rotten
in Denmark" when A Little Mothers' Association gives out a report that
around eighty per cent. of the total amount of money was spent on office
work, salaries and investigators and only twenty per cent. went to the
poor? The reason they give is that they prefer to spend fifty dollars on
investigating before giving five dollars, for fear of giving to the
undeserving, and that the large amount of money spent on salaries, etc.,
shows the good and thorough work of the institution. Then why not be
consistent and spend the whole amount the same way? It will show still
better work, greater efficiency. Why not put up a sign: "This
institution is founded with the object not to give charity," or call it
"The Society to Prevent Pauperisation of the Poor." But this does not
pay. No fool will give money for such a purpose. I foresee a day when
the poor will protest that their names and qualifications should not be
used to obtain money under false pretences--a day when the poor will
elect from _whom_ they want to receive charity.
But to come back to the wolf. After a quarter of an hour another young
woman, usually at work at the desk, quit her chair and went into the
room. She was all excited, as one might be before the curtain rises on
the scene when the villain is killed. She moved around on her chair, bit
her nails, squeezed her fingers, broke nibs--the wolf smelling a rabbit.
She at last could not resist temptation, so she entered the room. And
then I heard both their voices. Another investigator appeared. She was
the oldest in the place, and reputed to be a marvel. (She afterwards
obtained a position in the Juvenile Court--"the right place for the
right woman.")
"What's the matter in there?" she asked the office boy.
"Clipping wings of little birds," he answered laconically.
It was the first time I had ever heard a sentence which so well
characterised the work.
The old "maman" hardly had patience to throw off her coat when she
rushed into the fray. After a short lull during which the three
conferred probably, the old cove took charge of one of the little ones,
and went into another room.
The whole thing lasted more than an hour and was given up as
unsuccessful. The children were thrust out to the mother. She was
ordered to come to-morrow.
The three women seated themselves together and the younger one, thinking
of the great exploits of the police detectives, Sherlock Holmes stories,
remarked:
"A regular third degree."
The janitor, very interested in charity affairs, asked: "Did you sweat
them?"
The old "maman" thought deeply for a few moments then she exclaimed with
feeling:
"Come to think of it, they refused my candy! Isn't that a sign that they
had enough of it, that they get candy every day?"
"Of course," joined the two, "it certainly is so--children to refuse
candy! Who ever heard of it?"
"When are they coming to-morrow?"
"In the morning."
"Well, I will try to help you in this affair. I don't think they are
deserving."
As she went to write her report she kept on saying:
"A nice bunch--a nice bunch."
Presently the office boy approached, chewing gum.
"Confessed, condemned to the electric chair?" he asked.