Angry, Mike threw the ball in the opposite direction and flashed back a short sentence that gave his opinion about his insulter. A fist fight was the result and the poor lad would have gotten the worst of it had not his mother suddenly appeared from behind, and hitting the aggressor and the child she separated them and took her son home. He wriggled as though he wanted to go back to fight, but his mother had him well in hand. I followed them. At the entrance of the hall I waited a few minutes before knocking at the door, listening. The mother scolded, the boy cried and a little girl's voice pacified.
"Come in."
"Mrs. B.?" I inquired.
"Yes, sir," the woman answered, and as she spoke she removed her coat and rubbers.
About thirty, care-ploughed face, weak eyes, colourless lips, stooped, narrow, short of breath.
"What is it you want, sir?"
"Could we go into another room or would you send the children out so we can talk at our ease, Mrs. B.?"
The woman thought for awhile, then she beckoned to the children, who went into another room. I came straight to the point. I claimed that I was from the Gerry Society and that the children were not well taken care of.
"Where are you the whole day? You leave the children on the street, their shoes are torn, their clothes not suitable to the season—they are hungry, dirty."