He recalled the faces of the reporters eyeing McTurk in cold distaste
as that terror of the Bowery whimpered before them on his knees. "But
my daughters will read it," he had begged. "Suppose they believe I'm
what you call me. Don't go and give me a bad name to them, gentlemen.
It ain't my fault the girl's died here. You wouldn't have my
daughters think I'm to blame for that? They're ladies, my daughters,
they're just out of the convent, and they don't know that there is
such women in the world as come to this place. And I can't have 'em
turned against their old pop. For God's sake, gentlemen, don't let my
girls know!"
Cahill remembered the contempt he had felt for his employer as he
pulled him to his feet, but now McTurk's appeal seemed just and
natural. His point of view was that of the loving and considerate
parent. In Cahill's mind there was no moral question involved. If to
make his girl rich and a lady, and to lift her out of the life of the
Exchange, was a sin the sin was his own and he was willing to "stand
for it." And, like McTurk, he would see that the sin of the father
was not visited upon the child. Ranson was rich, foolishly, selfishly
rich; his father was a United States Senator with influence enough,
and money enough, to fight the law--to buy his son out of jail.
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