and his friends had been sitting the night of the murder or Kasheed
Hassoun and his friends--one or the other; he wondered if anybody would
ever know which. Was it possible that in this humdrum little place human
passions had been roused to the taking of life on account of some mere
difference in religious dogma? Was this New York? Was it possible to
Americanize these people? A door clattered in the rear, and from behind
the screen again emerged the boy carrying a tray of pastry and coffee.

"Well, my little man," said Mr. Tutt, "do you work here?"

"Oh, yes," answered the embryonic citizen. "My father, he owns half the
store. I go to school every day, but I work here afterward. I got a
prize last week."

"What sort of a prize?"

"I got the English prize."

The lawyer took the child's hand and pulled him over between his knees.
He was an attractive lad, clean, responsive, frank, and his eyes looked
straight into Mr. Tutt's.

"Sonny," he inquired his new friend, "are you an American?"

"Me? Sure! You bet I'm an American! The old folks--no! You couldn't
change 'em in fifty years. They're just what they always were. They
don't want anything different. They think they're in Syria yet. But
me--say, what do you think? Of course I'm an American!"

"That's right!" answered Mr. Tutt, offering him a piece of pastry. "And