“Don’t you know it’s wrong to fight?”
Mikky stared.
Endicott tried to think of something to add to his little moral homily, but somehow could not.
“It’s very wrong to fight,” he reiterated lamely.
The boy’s cherub mouth settled into firm lines.
“It’s wronger not to, when de little kids is gettin’ hurt, an’ de big fellers what ought ter work is stole away they bread, an’ they’s hungry.”
It was an entirely new proposition. It was the challenge of the poor against the rich, of the weak against the strong, and from the lips of a mere babe. The man wondered and answered not.
“I’d fight fer your little kid!” declared the young logician. He seemed to know by instinct that this was the father of his baby.
Ah, now he had touched the responsive chord. The father’s face lit up. He understood. Yes, it was right to fight for his baby girl, his little Starr, his one treasure, and this boy had done it, given his life freely. Was that like fighting for those other unloved, uncared-for, hungry darlings? Were they then dear children, too, of somebody, of God, if nobody else? The boy’s eyes were telling him plainly in one long deep look, that all the world of little children at least was kin, and the grateful heart of the father felt that in mere decency of gratitude he must acknowledge so much. Poor little hungry babies. What if his darling were hungry! A sudden longing seized his soul to give them bread at once to eat. But at least he would shower his gratitude upon this one stray defender of their rights.
He struggled to find words to let the child know of this feeling but only the tears gathering quickly in his eyes spoke for him.