Five feet high, in a suit of clothes three sizes too large for him, he
stood in the doorway of my office impassively examining a card which he
held in his hand and looking doubtfully about the room.
"I want to see the assistant district attorney," he said.
"Well, this is the right place," I answered in as encouraging a tone as
I could assume.
"I want to see you--to speak with you. That lawyer company----"
"Oh, the Legal Aid? What do you want to see me about?"
"The little feller," he replied, taking a step forward and grasping his
flat Derby hat firmly before him with both hands.
"What's the trouble?"
"It's the little feller--Isaac--they have arrested him for larceny." He
spoke the words in a matter-of-fact--rather hopeful--altogether engaging
manner.
"Larceny, eh! How old is he?"
"Eight. But he didn't do nothin'. He was out with some bad boys, but he
didn't do nothin' and the cop arrested him with the others. That's all.
I came down to get him off, if I could." He smiled frankly.
"What's your name?" I inquired, for ingenuousness of that sort is
uncommon among the Jews.
"Abraham Aselovitch--my father is Isidore and my mother she is Rachael
Aselovitch."
"And this little fellow--is he your brother?"
"Sure."
"When does his case come up?"
"Next Monday in the Children's Court." He shifted his position.
"Well, even if he is found guilty they will probably only send him to
the Juvenile Asylum."
"That's it--Juvenile Asylum. It's a bad place. I don't want him to go
there," replied the boy with determination.
"Why not, Abraham?" I inquired.
"It is a bad place. He will meet bad boys there--like the ones that got
him into trouble," he responded with an eager look.
"It's not such a bad place," I ventured.
"I know what it is!" he retorted fiercely. "They make criminals there.
Good boys are put in with the bad. It makes no difference. One makes the
other bad. Isaac is a _good_ boy."
"How about the evidence?"
"I think they will convict him," remarked Abraham conclusively. "Those
cops will swear to anything."
"Oh, it isn't as bad as that," I answered with a smile. "Still, I'm
afraid I can't get him off, particularly if the evidence would warrant
his conviction. After all, perhaps the Juvenile is the best place for
him, or maybe" (the thought struck me) "they will parole him in the
custody of his mother."
"No, they won't!" he cried with harsh vindictiveness. "She _wants_ him
to go there. The little feller, he makes too much trouble for her. She
don't want that she should have to clean up after him. She don't want to
have to cook for him." His eyes filled. "My mother, she has no use for
the little feller--but he's all I've got."
"Do you work?"
"Sure, every morning I go with my father at six o'clock, and I work all
day until seven. Then I come home, and the little feller is lying in my
bed and I put my arms around him and go to sleep."
"Six until seven!" I exclaimed.
"Yes, that is the time my father works, and I work for him--on the
pants."
"My God! A sweatshop!" I murmured. "Don't you ever have any fun?"
"Sure I do. Saturdays we don't do no work an' I take the little feller
down to Coney, an' sit on the sand all day with him. Do we have fun?
Well, say, I guess!"
"What does your father give you a week?"
"Sometimes a dollar. Sometimes a dollar and a half. Sometimes nothin'."
"What does your father say about putting Isaac in the asylum?"
"My father!" answered Abraham, his eyes flashing. "_He_ don't want him.
Isaac won't work. He's an _American_ boy. He's only eight. He just hangs
around the house and musses things up and won't do nothin' they tell
him. My father would be glad to get rid of him."
"Well, if he makes all this trouble, why do you want to keep him?" I
asked.
"Because I love him!" responded Abraham with a sob. "He's all I've
got--that little feller. I want him to grow up a good boy. If they
don't want to take care of him, _I will_. I'll earn the money. I'll send
him to school, maybe, by and by, and make a _lawyer_ of him." Abraham
spoke eagerly. "The old folks, my father and mother, they ain't like me
and you, they ain't real Americans, they don't understand these things.
All they think about is work and the synagogue. I'm up against it, I
know. I've got to work. But the little feller--I want that little feller
to come out on top and have a chance."
"McCarthy," said I to the county detective assigned to the office,
"kindly step into the next room. I want to speak to this boy alone.
"Abraham, you are up against it, I guess. Don't you think you can go
without the little feller for a year? I'll do what I can, but even if he
goes up they won't keep him longer than that at the asylum, and probably
when he comes out he'll be more of a help to your father and mother."
The big tears stood in his eyes and he twisted his hands together as he
answered:
"I guess--maybe--maybe, I could give up going down to Coney for a year,
if it was going to do him any good. Don't you think the asylum's so
bad?"
"No, indeed," said I. "It's fine. He can learn to play in the band.
He'll have a good time. Let him go."
For an instant I thought my words had made an impression. Then the two
tears welled over.
"You don't know--" the voice was low and passionate--"you don't know
what it is to have nothin' but a little feller like that. And way off
there--he would wake up in the night maybe--all alone--a little
feller----"
"Abraham!" I exclaimed, "the Juvenile be hanged! I'll see the judge and
do my best to have the little fellow remanded in the custody of his
brother. And Abraham----"
"Yes, sir."
"Where is the little feller? Out on bail?"
"Yessir."