“There is no use in punishing him now,” said my wife.  “Please leave him to me and find the others.”

“I wasn’t going to punish him,” I said.

“What are you going to do?  What makes you look at him so?”

“He’s a problem I can’t solve—­with the given conditions.”

“O Robert, you drive me half wild.  If the house was on fire you’d stop to follow out some train of thought about it all.  I’m tired to death.  Do bring the children home.  When we’ve put them to bed you can figure on your problem, and I can sit down.”

As I went up to the Daggetts’ flat I was dimly conscious of another problem.  My wife was growing fretful and nervous.  Our rooms would not have satisfied a Dutch housewife, but if “order is heaven’s first law” a little of Paradise was in them as compared to the Daggetts’ apartments.  “Yes,” I was told, in response to my inquiries; “Winnie is in the bed-room with Melissy.”

The door was locked, and after some hesitation the girls opened it.  As we were going downstairs I caught a glimpse of a newspaper in my girl’s pocket.  She gave it to me reluctantly, and said “Melissy” had lent it to her.  I told her to help her mother prepare supper while I went to find Merton.  Opening the paper under a street lamp, I found it to be a cheap, vile journal, full of flashy pictures that so often offend the eye on news-stands.  With a chill of fear I thought, “Another problem.”  The Daggett children had had the scarlet fever a few months before.  “But here’s a worse infection,” I reflected.  “Thank heaven, Winnie is only a child, and can’t understand these pictures;” and I tore the paper up and thrust it into its proper place, the gutter.

“Now,” I muttered, “I’ve only to find Merton in mischief to make the evening’s experience complete.”

In mischief I did find him—­a very harmful kind of mischief, it appeared to me.  Merton was little over fifteen, and he and two or three other lads were smoking cigarettes which, to judge by their odor, must certainly have been made from the sweepings of the manufacturer’s floor.

“Can’t you find anything better than that to do after school?” I asked, severely.

“Well, sir,” was the sullen reply, “I’d like to know what there is for a boy to do in this street.”

During the walk home I tried to think of an answer to his implied question.  What would I do if I were in Merton’s place?  I confess that I was puzzled.  After sitting in school all day he must do something that the police would permit.  There certainly seemed very little range of action for a growing boy.  Should I take him out of school and put him into a shop or an office?  If I did this his education would be sadly limited.  Moreover he was tall and slender for his age, and upon his face there was a pallor which I dislike to see in a boy.  Long hours of business would be very hard upon him, even if he could endure the strain at all.  The problem which had been pressing on me for months—­almost years—­grew urgent.