On returning home I went to my bed without supper. The whole night through I heard Cram's questions and the answers of the poor applicants, and the whole world appeared to me to be like one huge, bleeding wound. And the question came again and again to my mind: "Was charity, organised charity, the salve to heal this wound?"

I decided during the night not to accept my new job, but on the following morning I reconsidered the matter and went to work. "I will try to have this man Cram discharged," I promised myself. "I will speak to the Manager about the investigator's brutality. He is too busy upstairs. He evidently trusts the man and thinks that every one is treated kindly, humanely." And I explained to myself that the reason Cram was so cruel, though so young, was because of a few impostors who tried or succeeded in filching a few dollars from the charities. What they had to do was to remove him, as he was unfit for his office. It was the place for a woman, a big-hearted, kind old woman, who has seen much of life, who has herself perhaps at some time in her life been on the brink of misery, even compelled to apply herself to charities, and who would therefore understand the eyes full of tears, the quivering lips, the cry of the mother for her unfed children. Yes—a woman, a noble woman, instead of Cram, and everything would be all right, and as I walked towards the office I reviewed mentally all my acquaintances of the other sex, trying to place the one fit for the job. None was good enough, except one who would not accept it, my dear Joanna, with her silvery hair and the kind big, blue eyes. She had told me of her work in the Hull House in Chicago and with other charitable organisations in Boston and elsewhere.

"Friend," she often said, "it's no place for a human being. You see too much misery, too much pretence, too much darkness." And only a few days before when I told her about my future position she had advised me not to take it.

"It will embitter you or it will ruin your soul. A body that has worked in such a place two years should be backed against a wall and shot in mercy, because they are disabled for life to feel humanly."

Still thinking of her words I entered the door of the Institution.

The doorkeeper asked me where I was going. "To the office," I explained, trying to pass, but he was in my way. He insolently put his hands on my shoulders. "Say—you—where are you hurrying? Wait here."

"I want to see Mr. Lawson," said I, trying to pass.

"You can't see no one; go in the other room and write your application."

I shivered at the thought of the basement and almost forgot that I was an employee of the institution, when I saw Cram enter the door.

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.