A little farther along, they came to a large estate on the right side of the road, hidden behind a Christmas tree hedge that seemed to stretch for miles. It was the home of Mr. West, one of the wealthiest men in the country. Through the vine-covered entrance gates, they had a peep at a winding path, leading over a rustic bridge and past a sparkling pond.
Then, the red-roofed buildings of the Boyville School came into sight as they started upgrade. Lefty turned in between the two bleak posts and passed a big, bold sign, which announced:
BOYVILLE
Plainfield Township Truant School
At the desk inside the main building they were greeted by Mr. Link, the principal, a stern, gray-haired man, as erect as a general, and Mr. Bassett, his drooping little clerk.
“The band is waiting at the East Cottage,” Mr. Link said. “Come this way.” He opened a door at the back of the room and led them out into a cavelike place. It was a tunnel, with round, sloping walls of cold, gray stone and about as high as a tall man. Dampness rushed at them from the frigid walls.
The principal noted their puzzled expressions as the four stepped into the chill, queer place. “This tunnel is a part of our subway system,” he explained. “All our buildings are connected with this tunnel underground. It saves a lot of time and trouble. Food is taken in large thermos cans from the main kitchen to the cottage dining rooms. The tunnel even runs to the old isolation hospital, across the lots from these buildings. But we don’t use that hospital any more, for we had so few contagious cases, we found it better to take them to Plainfield.”
Now he was opening a door, leading them up into a vast place that reeked of soap and water. Past a pantry and dining room, where tables were set with white cloths and napkins, rolled into rings, marked each place. “The boys are just outside this cottage,” said the principal.
Cottage! It certainly wasn’t the cozy place the word suggested, this bare, unlovely building. They followed Mr. Link up to the second floor of the cottage, where there was a living room, with the boys’ study books in apple-pie order on the table. Joan caught a glimpse of the dormitory through an open door, with rows of scrupulously neat cots. Had the boys smoothed those beds? She marveled, but Mr. Link had said that the boys helped the matron with all the household tasks.
The second floor was on a level with the ground, and when they came out the front of the cottage they spied the band, about twenty boys in uniforms of French blue, with red-lined capes, costumes which Amy pronounced “simply gorgeous!” The boys’ shiny instruments sparkled in the sun. Lefty pulled out the slender black stems of his tripod and set it up. Tim took charge of the boys, who obeyed him meekly, eyeing the principal all the time. He had the smaller boys sit on the lower step, the taller ones behind, the two buglers on each end, with the gold cord hanging just so. Then Lefty squinted into his camera—he was so slow and deliberate, at times.
Tim was chatting with the principal. “No, we don’t use the honor system,” Mr. Link was saying. “I don’t believe it would work. The boys are bad boys, or they wouldn’t be here. We treat them like the prisoners they are.”