Short Stories
"How long?" asked the inspector, quickly.
"For years. Never gets a bit older."
"Or younger, I dare say. I suppose he's worked here all those
years?"
"Off and on—but that was before the new law was passed,"
the superintendent hastened to add. "Machine idle?" the inspec-
tor asked, pointing at the unoccupied machine beside Johnny's,
in which the part-filled bobbins were flying like mad.
"Looks that way." The superintendent motioned the overseer
to him and shouted in his ear and pointed at the machine.
"Machine's idle," he reported back to the inspector.
They passed on, and Johnny returned to his work, relieved in
that the ill had been averted. But the one-legged boy was not so
fortunate. The sharp-eyed inspector haled him out at arm's
length from the bin truck. His lips were quivering, and his face
had all the expression of one upon whom was fallen profound
and irremediable disaster. The overseer looked astounded, as
though for the first time he had laid eyes on the boy, while the
superintendent's face expressed shock and displeasure.
"I know him," the inspector said. "He's twelve years old. I've
had him discharged from three factories inside the year. This
makes the fourth."
He turned to the one-legged boy. "You promised me, word
and honor, that you'd go to school."
The one-legged boy burst into tears. "Please, Mr. Inspector,
two babies died on us, and we're awful poor."
"What makes you cough that way?" the inspector demanded,
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