On the other side of the bars the children—released for the dinner-interval—were clamouring equally, shouting, weeping, trying to get to their mothers. Some howled, with their sleeves rolled up, to exhibit the upper arm.
'See,' the women cried, 'the red marks! Oh, the poisoners!'
A light began to break upon Bloomah's brain. Evidently the School Board had suddenly sent down compulsory vaccinators.
'I won't die,' moaned a plump golden-haired girl. 'I'm too young to die yet.'
'My little lamb is dying!' A woman near Bloomah, with auburn wisps showing under her black wig, wrung her hands. 'I hear her talk—always, always about the red mark. Now they have given it her. She is poisoned—my little apple.'
'Your little carrot is all right,' said Bloomah testily. 'They've only vaccinated her.'
The woman caught at the only word she understood. 'Vaccinate, vaccinate!' she repeated. Then, relapsing into jargon and raising her hands heavenward: 'A sudden death upon them all!'
Bloomah turned despairingly in search of a wigless woman. One stood at her elbow.
'Can't you explain to her that the doctors mean no harm?' Bloomah asked.
'Oh, don't they, indeed? Just you read this!' She flourished a handbill, English on one side, Yiddish on the other.