Cram glanced at me as though to say, "You see."
"Sick? and what is your disease? Lazyo-mania?"
"No, I am sick," the woman said, her eyes swimming with tears.
"Sick—what sickness?"
"I am sick. I can't tell you what sickness. I worked at pants—an operator—and now I am sick. I have pains all over and I can't work. I can't—I won't mind it for me—but my children go to bed without supper and go to school without breakfast. And I can't stand it—I can't—I never applied to charities—"
"Enough, enough," Cram interrupted. "Never applied to charity! I know that gag. You shouldn't have applied now. A strong woman like you should be ashamed—ashamed to come here with the other beggars," sweeping his hand towards the others. "Go to work. You won't get a cent from here."
"But I can't. I am sick."
"Go to a hospital if you can't work."
"And my children?" sobbed the poor mother.
"Well, then, what do you want? A pension of $200 a month, a trip abroad, a palace, a country house? Say—say quickly what do you want? I have no time. You will get everything immediately. It's a fine job, Mr. Baer, is it not?"