"This is the trouble," she began. "Down in my school we've a family of
about three thousand children. A few I get to know so well I try to follow
them when they leave. And one of these, an Italian boy--his name is Joe
Bolini--was one of the best I ever had, and one of the most appealing. But
Joe took to drinking and got in with a gang of boys who blackmailed small
shopkeepers. He used to come to me at times in occasional moods of
repentance. He was a splendid physical type and he'd been a leader in our
athletics, so I took him back into the school to manage our teams in
basket-ball. He left the gang and stopped drinking, and we had long talks
together about his great ambition. He wanted to enter the Fire Department
as soon as he was twenty-one. And I promised to use my influence." She
stopped, still frowning slightly.
"What happened?" Roger asked her.
"His girl took up with another man, and Joe has hot Italian blood. He got
drunk one night and--shot them both." There was another silence. "I did
what I could," she said harshly, "but he had a bad record behind him, and
the young assistant district attorney had his own record to think of, too.
So Joe got a death sentence. We appealed the case but it did no good. He
was sent up the river and is in the death house now--and he sent for me to
come to-day. His letter hinted he was scared, he wrote that his priest was
no good to him. So I went up this afternoon.
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