I reported the next day the situation of the family and urged immediate relief. The Manager called me into his sanctum and told me that my information was not complete, since I had not learned where the daughters were. "I am sure," he said, "that she knows where they are. You must get it out of her."
"All right," I said, "but in the meantime send them relief. There is no coal, no bread."
"Are you sure?" he asked. I assured him of the fact.
"Then it's all right," and he rubbed his hands with great satisfaction. "It's all right," he repeated. "We'll break her stubbornness, all right. We'll get their address now. So they have no bread, eh?"
Cries from the waiting room came to my ears, as though a chorus of those unfortunate beings would blaspheme all together: "Cursed be the hour when we applied to charity—cursed—cursed—cursed."
We were interrupted by some one else coming in on some business.
I felt my head swimming and I looked longingly outside through the large window over the Manager's desk. A little bird flew around the sill, and hungry, she tried to pick the putty from around the pane. Mr. Rogers probably followed my wandering gaze for he was soon standing near me and having also remarked the little bird he exclaimed: "Poor little thing, is it not pitiful? Hungry and cold!" So saying he opened the window and invited the bird to enter. Yet the bird preferred to remain outside.
Mr. Lawson was called in and a conference took place as to how to force Mrs. Sokol to give the address of her children.
"But do you suppose that she has sold her children for immoral purposes that you are so anxious to learn their whereabouts?"