“The frock is for Polly Baker, child of Joseph Baker, a dweller in Lumber’s Yard, and sometime a tiller of the fields.”
Frances paused, her pen uplifted, and a serious expression on her face.
“But, Max, Miss Carlyon says the Altruists oughtn’t to help people who won’t help themselves. That Joseph Baker is a lazy, selfish, good-for-nothing.”
“I know the gentleman. You’ve described him mildly.”
“And Mr. Carlyon has got him work over and over again, but he always loses it.”
“No wonder, the drunken scamp!” muttered Max under his breath.
“He is as bad as he can be.”
“True, dear Madam Altruist. But that isn’t the fault of his daughter Polly, aged three.”
“Still, if Baker finds he can get his children fed and clothed for nothing, he will go on spending all his money in that dreadful inn in Lumber’s Yard.”
“He will go on doing that anyhow. Mr. Carlyon isn’t easily beaten, but he has given up Joseph Baker, Esquire. Meanwhile, Baker’s children would starve if it were not for charity. Frances, Polly is such a game little thing! You wouldn’t believe how she stands up to her brute of a father when she sees him ill-treat her mother. I’ve delivered her out of Baker’s clutches more than once.”