City of Orphans: Chapters 23–34

“I don’t know,” Willa says again, her voice a shambles. Tears run down her cheeks.

Lots of folks think they call it The Tombs ’cause it’s a place for people getting buried. Sort of. But it actually got its moniker from looking like a temple in a country named Egypt.

When these men arrive—brought by hansom cabs with fancy-dan horses, snooty drivers up and behind—the cops salute ’em.

Though it’s hours ’fore the newsies can buy their bundles, a couple hundred boys—and a few girls—are milling round, not doing much.

“Yeah. She’s here. Arrested for larceny.”
Maks’s stomach churns. “What’s...larceny?”
“She’s a thief. How old?”

The cop opens Maks’s newspaper-wrapped parcel, sniffs the food, makes an ugly face, gives it back, and hands Maks a ticket.

On the lower level, where Maks stands gawking, some cell doors are open, so prisoners are walking in and out.

See, during the past few months, working by the East River on garbage barges, or under the docks picking out usable rags, people avoided her.

But Willa’s building wasn’t as old, the kind of tenement called a “dumbbell,” with an open central shaft that allows for light and air.

The foremen—there are a few of ’em walking ’bout the floor—bark at workers, praising ’em or pointing out mistakes, urging everyone to work faster, reminding ’em that they make their money by the number of shoes they turn out each day.

Agnes gazes at him, hardly blinking, listening intently, now and again clearing her throat or stifling a cough.

He’s struggling with his thoughts, staring at his feet, not paying attention to where he’s going, when someone suddenly slams him. The jolt sends him spinning so hard, he falls to the sidewalk.

Burly men start lugging out tied-up copies of The World, forty copies a bundle.

On the right side, a warped door, with a sign tacked to it: DETECTIVE—KNOCK LOUDLY!!!

Side-whiskers give him the look of a bristly chimney brush.

When the man breathes, there’s a rattle deep in his throat. His chins go wobbly. Then he makes a couple of hacking coughs that cause his entire body to shudder.

He yanks the tube from his ear, turns away, and lurches forward, his head sinking back into his arms.

“The hopefulness of children,” he yells, “is equaled only by their naïveté! Do you have any idea what I just said?”

“I’m poor because I help people who can’t help themselves. If I use my time helping your sister, I’ll starve. Ergo, I am starving.”

Breathing heavily, wiping his lips, Donck considers Willa balefully.

“I believe,” he says—his back to Maks and Willa—“there are more wretched children on these streets than any other of the species. My Lord,” he suddenly shouts, “the question before the heavenly court today is this: Do You wish any children to survive in this miserable city, this—this city of orphans?”

“Consumption!” Donck yells. “Wasting disease! Tuberculosis! The cure, expensive, if it works. Each year,” he shouts, “thousands in this filthy city die of it. Each month. Each week. Each day! Annually, this city has more than a million cases of illness. Smallpox! Diphtheria! Typhoid! Tuberculosis! I’m no exception. You are petitioning a doomed man!”

“Consumption!” Donck yells. “Wasting disease! Tuberculosis! The cure, expensive, if it works. Each year,” he shouts, “thousands in this filthy city die of it. Each month. Each week. Each day! Annually, this city has more than a million cases of illness. Smallpox! Diphtheria! Typhoid! Tuberculosis! I’m no exception. You are petitioning a doomed man!”

“Consumption!” Donck yells. “Wasting disease! Tuberculosis! The cure, expensive, if it works. Each year,” he shouts, “thousands in this filthy city die of it. Each month. Each week. Each day! Annually, this city has more than a million cases of illness. Smallpox! Diphtheria! Typhoid! Tuberculosis! I’m no exception. You are petitioning a doomed man!”

He glares at Maks and Willa with bleary eyes, as if they were coming to bring him death.

“With your bludgeon,” Donck sneers, “with which you so rudely struck me? So that when children come looking for relations who have abandoned or abused them, you could beat their oppressors?”

“With your bludgeon,” Donck sneers, “with which you so rudely struck me? So that when children come looking for relations who have abandoned or abused them, you could beat their oppressors?”
“What’s an oppressor?” Maks asks.

This is America. The New World. The noble experiment. Supposedly God’s country.

But I—I, Bartleby Donck—shall be dead. Dumped into a pauper’s grave. The uncommon man sunk into the common city clay.

“Sir,” says Maks cautiously, “you saying you’ll help us?”
“Do you wish to know why? Because you believed that pathetic story you read! I have an obligation to my profession to guide you from the pathetic influence of that junk..."