"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.