He came up, saluted me and told the man that it was "all right," that I was a new employee. The doorkeeper touched his cap in respect and retreated, excusing himself with the words, "I thought it was an applicant." How horrible this word sounded to me.
"Did you announce yourself to Mr. Lawson?" Cram asked. "Not yet," was my answer. "You'd better announce yourself to him," Cram advised. "Soon the applicants will come. We'll have a busy day. It's bitterly cold outside and on such days they come, oh! they come, they won't give you any peace, these scoundrels. We can't complain of lack of customers," he laughed, tapping my shoulder familiarly. "Say, Mr. Baer," he sniggered, "I'm supposed to be a 'red hot Socialist,' but I must confess that I hate the applicants. I hate them like hell. They have no manners; they never go when you tell them. They sit and sit. Oh! I hate them—hate them," and he grimaced in disgust.
Cram announced me to Mr. Lawson and I was soon called into the office. He invited me to sit down, asked me about my former occupations and then explained my work to me:
"Now," he said, "I hope you are aware of the fact that we send out investigators to investigate all the cases that we get. All our investigators are women, and women are very softhearted. Besides this we know that most of their information is not reliable, because they get the information from the applicants themselves, from their neighbours or their relatives. Now, the information given by the applicant is worthless. The neighbour is very often on good terms with the applicant, and as to their relatives, they always give us only the poor ones, they never give us the wealthy ones. Now we have six hundred pension cases; six hundred people that get relief every month for their rent and food. We want these cases to be re-investigated; the information not to come from the applicant or neighbours who know that you are an investigator of the charities. In some way you might find out—posing as a pedlar, as a health officer, a friend of the family, or any other way you want."
"So," I interrupted, "what you want is a detective," and I intended to tell him that I was not going to be one, but he quickly assented. "Yes, we want you to be a detective. You'll do good work. We have a limited amount of money to spend and if some people get a pension without exactly needing it they take the money from another family that is really starving and whom we can't help at all."
This struck me very convincingly. I had no more scruples and I decided to accept the job.
"We'll give you five names and addresses and you'll have to find out all the rest yourself. We want to know everything that the family does; who their relatives are and how much money comes into the house. None of the investigators should know anything about your work—keep it secret." A few minutes later he gave me five addresses, and wishing me "good-luck," he escorted me to the door.
Once outside I thought the matter over again. I seemed to be stranded in a treacherous swamp in which I was sinking deeper and deeper, but Mr. Lawson's argument that those who did not need charity were taking away the bread of the needy appealed very strongly to me and I made up my mind to go ahead.
Before starting on my work I entered a coffee house on the lower east side and tried to warm myself with a cup of coffee. Several times I made up my mind to send the addresses back with my resignation, but the argument that the impostor was getting money which should go to the needy was convincing. It seemed as though I heard Mr. Lawson repeating it over and over again. His fine blond face full of stern pity. Not the sentimental pity that lights up the features for a moment, but the pity of the man who has devoted his whole life to helping the poor. Certainly Mr. Lawson has no other reason. He wants to repair the evils of our present system. He cannot cure, he cannot eradicate all the evil, but to lessen the suffering of the poor is surely a good work. And Mr. Rogers, that polite gentleman, the Manager. He too is busy all day helping the poor. Why should I shirk because Cram was not of the right stuff? Thus I reasoned: "He is not the whole institution. You will explain to the gentlemen and they will discharge him." I was soon quiet again and out in the street.