I made an exclamation of pity, and Gringo said, “My heart was sore for them too. They’ve good Scotch heads, and the boy’s an awful drag on their peace of mind. They stood in the doorway after my boss had pounded a while—white-faced, and with eyebrows up.
“Mister was cool but firm as a rock—he’s often told them the boy would do some damage. He walked the boy before him into the stuffy parlour, and sat down on one side of the big family Bible, and the McGraileys sat on the other.
“‘How soon can you get your lad out of this?’ asked mister in his short way.
“Mrs. McGrailey began to cry, and old man McGrailey looked black.
“‘Sir,’ said the woman presently lifting her head. ‘S’pose ’twas your boy.’
“Father McGrailey took up the cry. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘s’pose ’twas your boy. Would you take him out of his warm bed, where you can look at him every night, and send him where he’d be beaten, and driven and scared and he—oh! great heavens—an idiot boy.’
“‘He isn’t an idiot,’ said mister. ‘I’ve told you dozens of times he’s a moron. He comes first in the class of mental defectives. Imbeciles and idiots are below him—and he does not stay in his warm bed.’
“‘I couldn’t send him away,’ wailed Mrs. McGrailey with her arms round Willie. ‘I couldn’t give him up. He’s all I have.’
“‘I told you,’ said mister striking his hand on the table, ‘that there’s a good institution up state, and I saw boys in your Willie’s class, and their faces were fine. They were feeding lads weaker than themselves. He’d be taught a trade too. I’m speaking for his good. He’s a plague to this neighbourhood.’