s
for the songs and all the folk tales they had heard in peasant huts in
Italy, in hamlets along rocky coasts, in the dark old ghettos of crowded
towns in Poland and in Russia. And some of these songs were sung in school,
and some of these tales were dramatized here. Children and parents all took
part. And speakers emerged from the neighborhood. It was at times
appalling, the number of young Italians and Jews who had ideas to give
forth to their friends on socialism, poverty, marriage and religion, and
all the other questions that rose among these immigrants jammed into this
tenement hive. But when there were too many of these self-appointed guides,
the neighborhood shut down on them.

"We don't want," declared one indignant old woman, "that every young loafer
should shout in our face!"

Roger was slowly attracted into this enormous family life, and yielding to
an impulse he took charge of a boys' club which met on Thursday evenings
there. He knew well this job of fathering a small jovial group of lads; he
had done it before, many years ago, in the mission school, to please his
wife; he felt himself back on familiar ground. And from this point of
vantage, with something definite he could do, he watched with an interest
more clear the school form steadily closer ties with the tenements that
hedged it 'round, gathering its big family. And this family by slow degrees
began to make itself a part of the daily life of Roger's house. Committees
held their meetings here, teachers dropped in frequently, and Roger invited
the boys in his club to come up and see him whenever they liked.

His most frequent visitor was Johnny Geer, the cripple. He was working in
Roger's office now and the two had soon become close friends. John kept
himself so neat and clean, he displayed such a keen interest in all the
details of office work, and he showed such a beaming appreciation of
anything that was done for him.

"That boy is getting a hold on me lately almost like a boy of my own,"
Roger said one evening when Allan Baird was at the house. "He's the
pluckiest young un I ever met. I've put him to work in my private office,
where he can use the sofa to rest, and I've made him my own
stenographer--partly because he's so quick at dictation and partly to try
to make him slow down. He has the mind of a race horse. He runs at night to
libraries until I should think he'd go insane. And his body can't stand it,
he's breaking down--though whenever I