Then she stepped aside and stood
quite still, looking after the little figure that passed
out of the court room with his hand in that of a big,
kindly police officer. She looked until the big door had
opened and closed upon them.
Then--well, it was just another newspaper story. It
made a good one. That evening I told Frau Nirlanger
about it, and she wept, softly, and murmured: "Ach, das
arme baby! Like my little Oscar he is, without a
mother." I told Ernst about him too, and Blackie,
because I could not get his grave little face out of my
mind. I wondered if those who had charge of him now
would take the time to bathe the little body, and brush
the soft hair until it shone, and tie the gay plaid silk
tie as lovingly as "Daddy" Arnett of the Detention Home
had done.
Then it was that I, quite unwittingly, stepped into
Bennie's life.
There was an anniversary, or a change in the board of
directors, or a new coat of paint or something of the
kind in one of the orphan homes, and the story fell to
me. I found the orphan home to be typical of its kind--a
big, dreary, prison-like structure. The woman at
the door did not in the least care to let me in. She was
a fish-mouthed woman with a hard eye, and as I told my
errand her mouth grew fishier and the eye harder.
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