Mr. Akerson fingered his check book, and made one last effort to explain:

"Miss Mingle is influenced by her sister, who has hallucinations," but he could say no more, for Major Dale and Bob came toward him threateningly.

"Miss Mingle teaches my daughter in school, and we will hear nothing from you about her family," said Major Dale, decidedly.

"I demand justice!" cried Mr. Akerson, jumping from his seat.

"I call this justice," calmly answered the major.

"I shall not be coerced into signing a check and handing it to Mrs.

White. I'll take this matter to the proper authorities," the agent fumed, as he walked rapidly to and fro. "It's an injustice. I tell you I'm innocent."

"Then prove your innocence!" answered Major Dale.

The ladies were beginning to show signs of the nervous strain. Miss Mingle and Tavia were almost in hysterics, while Dorothy clung to Mrs.

White's arm.

"You do not understand the laws in this State," declared Mr. Akerson.

"There is no charge against me. I defy you to prove one!"

"Very well, we will summon one who understands the laws, and decide the matter at once," said Major Dale; "meanwhile, you ladies leave these disagreeable surroundings."

"After all," said Miss Mingle, as they left the office building, "we won't have the awful bother of moving; will we, dear Mrs. White?" Her voice was full of pleading.

"No, indeed, and as soon as everything is settled, we must try to find an honest agent to care for the place. I am convinced that Mr. Akerson is not honest, in spite of all he said," said Mrs. White.

"My poor sister!" sighed Miss Mingle. "She almost collapsed at the mere thought of having to leave that apartment."

"Never mind," consoled Mrs. White, "everything will be all right now. And you dear girls, how you ever had the courage to face that situation all alone, I cannot understand!"

"Oh, it was nothing!" said Tavia, really believing, since the worst part of it was over, that it had been nothing at all.

"I almost imagine we enjoyed it!" Dorothy exclaimed.

"Oh, nonsense," said Mrs. White, "you are both so nervous, you look as though another week's rest would be needed. You are pale, both of you."

"Well, I don't feel one bit pale," said Tavia, "Still I think I'll lie down, when we get home."

"So will I, but I'm not tired," declared Dorothy.

"They are too young; too high spirited," said Mrs. White to Miss Mingle, as they parted; "they won't admit the awful strain they have been under all day."

An hour later, when the boys and Major Dale returned to the apartment, all was quiet, and they tiptoed about for fear of awakening the girls.

Aunt Winnie was waiting for them.

"It's all settled," whispered Major Dale. "We have Akerson under bonds to appear in three days to pay back all money due you."

"And to think that Dorothy and Tavia unraveled the mystery!" sighed Aunt Winnie.

"Hurrah!" said the boys, in a whisper. "Hurrah for the girls!"

Which brought the girls into the room.

CHAPTER XXIII PATHOS AND POVERTY

Dorothy roused the next morning with a sense of great relief after the strenuous hours of the previous day. At last they were beginning to accomplish something in the way of straightening out Aunt Winnie's complicated money matters. It was a decided rest to turn her thoughts to the poor boy who had spent a little time in their kitchenette-the boy who just ate what was offered him, and grinned good-naturedly at the family.

He had evidently considered them all a part of the day's routine, and accepted the food, and the warmth, and kindness with a hardened indifference that made Dorothy curious. He had grudgingly given Dorothy his street and house number. He was so flint-like, and skeptical about rich people helping poor people, his young life had had such varied experience with the settlement workers, that he plainly did not wish to see more of his hostess.

It was an easy matter for Dorothy to just smile and declare she was "going out." Tavia was curled up in numerous pillows, surrounded by magazines and boxes of candy, and the boys were going skating. City ice did not "keep" as did the ice in the country, and the only way to enjoy it while it lasted, as Ned explained, was to spend every moment skating madly.

Dorothy read the address, Rivington Street, and wondered as she started forth what this, her first real glimpse into the life of New York City's poor, would reveal. She was a bit tremulous, and anxious to reach the place.

"Where is this number, little boy?" she inquired, of a street urchin.

"Over there," responded a voice buried in the depths of a turned-up collar. "I know you," it said impudently. One glance into the large, heavily-lashed eyes made Dorothy smiled. Here was the very same thin boy upon whom she was going to call.

"Is your mother at home?" she asked.

"Sure," he replied, "so's father." Then he laughed impishly.

"And have you brothers and sisters, too?" said Dorothy.

"Sure." He looked Dorothy over carefully, decided she could keep a secret, and coming close to her he whispered: "We got the mostest big family in de street; n.o.body's got as many childrens as we got!" Then he stood back proudly.

"I want to see them all," coaxed Dorothy. She hesitated about entering the tenement to which the thin boy led her. It was tall and dirty and a series of odors, unknown to Dorothy's well-brought-up nose, rushed to meet them as the hall door was pushed open. The fire escapes covering the front of the house were used for back yards-ash heaps and garbage, bedding and washes, all hung suspended, threatening to topple over on the heads of the pa.s.sersby, and the long, dark hall they entered was also littered with garbage cans, and an acc.u.mulation of dirty rags and papers and children.

Such frowsy-headed, unkempt, ragged little babies! Dorothy's heart went out to them all-she wanted to take each one and wash the little face, and smooth the suspicious, sullen brows. The advent of a well-dressed visitor into the main hall meant the opening of many doors and a wonderfully frank a.s.sortment of remarks as to whom the visitor might be. Little Tommy, the thin boy, glad of the opportunity to "show off" grandly led Dorothy up the stairs, making the most of the trip.

"The other day when I was skatin' with you in Central Park," flippantly fell from Tommy's lips, loud enough for the words to enter bombastically through the open doors, "I come home and said to the family, I sez,-" but what Tommy had said to the family never was known, because the remainder of Tommy's family having heard in advance of Tommy's coming, rushed pell-mell to meet them, and with various smudgy fingers stuck into all sizes of mouths, they stared, some through the railings, some over the railing, more from the top step-the "mostest biggest family" exhibited no tendency to hang back.

"Come in out of that, you little ones," said a soft, motherly voice, that sounded clear and sweet in the midst of the tumult of the tenement house, and Dorothy looked quickly in the direction from whence it came and beheld Tommy's mother. She was small and dark, and in garments of fashion would have been dainty. She seemed little older than Tommy, who was nine, and life in the poorest section of the city, trying to bring up a large family in three rooms, had left no tragic marks on her smooth brow, and when she smiled, she dimpled. Dorothy smiled back instantly, the revelation of this mother was so unexpectedly different from anything Dorothy had imagined.

"They _will_ run out in the hall," the mother explained, apologetically, "and they're only half-dressed, and it's so cold that they'll all be down with sore throats, if they don't mind me. Now come inside, every one of you!" But not one of the children moved an inch until Dorothy reached the top landing, then they all backed into the room, which at a glance Dorothy was unable at first to name. There was a cot in one corner, a stove, a large table, and sink in another, and one grand easy chair near a window. Regular chairs there were none, but boxes aplenty, and opening from this kitchen-bedroom-living-room was an uncarpeted, evil-looking room, and in the doorway a giant of a man stood, looking in bleary-eyed bewilderment at Dorothy.

"You'll get your rent when I get my pay," he said, with an ill-natured leer. "So he's sending you around now? Afraid to come himself after the scare I gave him the last time? D'ye remember the scare I gave him Nellie?" he turned to the little woman.

With a curious love and pride in this great, helpless giant, his wife straightened his necktie, that hung limply about the neck of his blue flannel shirt, and patting his hand said, caressingly:

"Now stop your foolin', she's not from the rent-man, she's a friend of our Tommy's,-the lady that went skatin' with Tommy in the Park; don't you know, James?"

James straightened himself against the panels of the door, and stared down at Dorothy, but his first idea that she was after his week's pay was evident in his manner.

"You wouldn't of got it if you did come for it," he declared, proudly, "'cause it ain't so far behind that you could make me pay it."