“Couldn’t you let Michael know now, daddy? I think it would be such a help to him to know that his speech has done some good.” The voice was very sweet and appealing. “Couldn’t you send him word by one of the ushers?”
“H’m! I suppose I could.” Endicott took out his fountain pen and a business card, and began to write.
“You don’t suppose, daddy, that the owner will object to selling? There won’t be any trouble about it that way, will there?”
“No, I don’t think there’ll be any trouble.”
Endicott slipped the card into an envelope he found in his pocket and calling an usher asked him to take it to the platform to Michael. What he had written was this:
I suppose you have been talking about my property. Pull the tenement down if you like and build a model one. I’ll foot the bills. D.E.
When Michael, surprised at receiving a communication on the platform, tore the envelope open and read, his face fairly blazed with glory. Starr was watching him, and her heart gave a queer little throb of pleasure at the light in his eyes. The next instant he was on his feet, and with a whispered word to the chairman, came to the front of the platform. His raised hand brought instant silence.
“I have good news. May I share it with you? The owner of that tenement is in this house, and has sent me word that he will tear it down and build a model one in its place!”
The ring in Michael’s voice, and the light on his face was equivalent to a dozen votes of thanks. The audience rose to its feet and cheered:
“Daddy! Oh, daddy! Are you the owner?” There was astonishment, reproof, excuse, and forgiveness all mingled in Starr’s voice.