"Bridget's over seventy," the chief replied, "and not very strong; she'd be a public charge, sure."
"And yet she's all right?"
"Oh, perfectly," he said as soon as they reached the building.
"We got this telegram yesterday and I took it to your office this morning," the newcomer answered, "to talk it over with you, but you weren't there."
The chief of the Information Division glanced at the telegram and then turned it over to Hamilton.
"Read that," he said. "That's the way it came, without signature or anything."
Hamilton read it eagerly, and as soon as he had finished, "that's from Bridget Mahoney's son," he announced, with as absolute assurance as though it had been signed.
The deportation official looked up in surprise, but Hamilton's guide made a hasty explanatory introduction.
"We should like to be as sure as you are," said the deportation chief, "although I think we all rather hope it is from him. But you see it isn't dated Johnstown or anything like that, and it isn't signed. Just simply the words:
"'Don't—deport—my—old—mother.'"