and spendthriftways” (specifically cited were Joe’s use of tobacco and Margaret’s having once taken the children, at two cents a head, to view the mound of melted metal from the Great Fire on display at the Relic House).
“You mean to say,” Lucy sardonically asked Margaret after she’d recounted what had happened, “they didn’t reprimand you for having breakfast
every
morning?” She encouraged her to make a second appeal and—perhaps because an unusually harsh winter had set in, with people found every night frozen to death on the streets—the society did, when Margaret reappeared, partially relent: it agreed to provide the Hennesseys with a food basket and some firewood every other day. But Margaret couldn’t abide the lectures on abstinence and hard work that accompanied the hand-outs and after a month refused further help from the Society.
Lucy and Albert insisted on giving the Hennesseys a “loan” of two dollars a week, all they could spare, and every other week Lizzie Swank chipped in half a dollar from her own meager income. But bad luck continued to dog the family at every turn. They had long been relying on credit not only for grocery purchases, but for almost every item in their barren flat—including the dishes, the pots and pans, the stove, and above all, the precious Singer sewing machine. Unable any longer to meet payments, they watched helplessly as their household items were repossessed one by one. The sewing machine was the last to go, and Lucy held a tearful Margaret tightly in her arms when the collectors arrived to take it away.
Still worse was to come. One afternoon, as Lucy was absorbed in stitching a waistband, a tearful Margaret rushed in, barely able to blurt out the news that her eleven-year-old, Tom, had been arrested for trying to pawn stolen goods. In the investigation that followed, Tom was linked to a gang of street children—several such gangs had sprung up in the city—who’d been employing an arsenal of inventive survival tricks. One of them had mastered the epileptic fit, convincingly collapsing in convulsion in the middle of a crowded street; horrified passersby would drop a few coins into the boy’s outstretched palm before fleeing the scene. Another, a girl of twelve, had become a pathetic “cripple,” hobbling down the street on broken-down crutches, her hand held out for alms; sometimes, bored with her own performance, she’d substitute a fake prosthesis or swath herself in filthy bandages. In the same high spirits, the gang would leave their own brand of calling cards at the mansionsalong Prairie Avenue: they rang the doorbells and unhinged the gate at the Marshall Field residence; and on the lawn of the Pullman mansion, they planted a large “Tripe and Pigs’ Feet” sign.
The police treated the children as dangerous criminals. Tom, without a trial, was sent at once to Dunning, the notorious three-story brick building situated nine miles outside the city that simultaneously served as jail, madhouse, and shelter for the indigent poor. A sobbing Margaret told Lucy, who’d never heard of Dunning, that it was Chicago’s most dreaded institution. “I used to threaten my Tom with the place when he misbehaved.”
Lizzie, outside Margaret’s hearing, told Lucy some additional horror stories about the place. “A girlfriend of mine,” Lizzie said, “had a nervous collapse from too much work and not enough food, and they sent her to Dunning. The staff members—not a respectable soul among them—stole every single personal item she had, down to her ripped stockings. The only two ‘doctors’ in the place were inexperienced students who prescribed the same medications for all ailments. And the meals, every meal, consisted of watered-down soup, moldy bread, and some sort of ‘meat’ concoction so tough it got nicknamed ‘B.A.’—‘blacksmith’s apron.’ ”
“I wouldn’t have stood for it!” Lucy said indignantly.
“Ah, Lucy, you still have
“You mean to say,” Lucy sardonically asked Margaret after she’d recounted what had happened, “they didn’t reprimand you for having breakfast
every
morning?” She encouraged her to make a second appeal and—perhaps because an unusually harsh winter had set in, with people found every night frozen to death on the streets—the society did, when Margaret reappeared, partially relent: it agreed to provide the Hennesseys with a food basket and some firewood every other day. But Margaret couldn’t abide the lectures on abstinence and hard work that accompanied the hand-outs and after a month refused further help from the Society.
Lucy and Albert insisted on giving the Hennesseys a “loan” of two dollars a week, all they could spare, and every other week Lizzie Swank chipped in half a dollar from her own meager income. But bad luck continued to dog the family at every turn. They had long been relying on credit not only for grocery purchases, but for almost every item in their barren flat—including the dishes, the pots and pans, the stove, and above all, the precious Singer sewing machine. Unable any longer to meet payments, they watched helplessly as their household items were repossessed one by one. The sewing machine was the last to go, and Lucy held a tearful Margaret tightly in her arms when the collectors arrived to take it away.
Still worse was to come. One afternoon, as Lucy was absorbed in stitching a waistband, a tearful Margaret rushed in, barely able to blurt out the news that her eleven-year-old, Tom, had been arrested for trying to pawn stolen goods. In the investigation that followed, Tom was linked to a gang of street children—several such gangs had sprung up in the city—who’d been employing an arsenal of inventive survival tricks. One of them had mastered the epileptic fit, convincingly collapsing in convulsion in the middle of a crowded street; horrified passersby would drop a few coins into the boy’s outstretched palm before fleeing the scene. Another, a girl of twelve, had become a pathetic “cripple,” hobbling down the street on broken-down crutches, her hand held out for alms; sometimes, bored with her own performance, she’d substitute a fake prosthesis or swath herself in filthy bandages. In the same high spirits, the gang would leave their own brand of calling cards at the mansionsalong Prairie Avenue: they rang the doorbells and unhinged the gate at the Marshall Field residence; and on the lawn of the Pullman mansion, they planted a large “Tripe and Pigs’ Feet” sign.
The police treated the children as dangerous criminals. Tom, without a trial, was sent at once to Dunning, the notorious three-story brick building situated nine miles outside the city that simultaneously served as jail, madhouse, and shelter for the indigent poor. A sobbing Margaret told Lucy, who’d never heard of Dunning, that it was Chicago’s most dreaded institution. “I used to threaten my Tom with the place when he misbehaved.”
Lizzie, outside Margaret’s hearing, told Lucy some additional horror stories about the place. “A girlfriend of mine,” Lizzie said, “had a nervous collapse from too much work and not enough food, and they sent her to Dunning. The staff members—not a respectable soul among them—stole every single personal item she had, down to her ripped stockings. The only two ‘doctors’ in the place were inexperienced students who prescribed the same medications for all ailments. And the meals, every meal, consisted of watered-down soup, moldy bread, and some sort of ‘meat’ concoction so tough it got nicknamed ‘B.A.’—‘blacksmith’s apron.’ ”
“I wouldn’t have stood for it!” Lucy said indignantly.
“Ah, Lucy, you still have
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